Something New
by wrldpossibility
Summary: Set in the Afterward universe, starting the summer Mike is 8 and Henry is almost 2. Rated T for occasional language and smut. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

Michael had a confession to make. Some days, he truly hated this house. He hated the need to climb the stairs to the second floor anytime his kids needed him at night, he hated using an office he knew had belonged to Jacob, he hated pulling into his driveway to see the damned drain that had once harbored all his paper cranes. He hated having to note the faint rectangular outlines of slightly darker paint along the wall where framed photos of Jacob with _his_ son had once graced it, evidence he acknowledged no one else probably noticed, and which Sara, to her credit, had taken care to cover.

He told himself it didn't matter: he had his family back. He was here with them, a father to his sons, a husband to his wife. Not so very long ago, he'd never dared imagine they'd ever live under the same roof again, that he'd ever know his firstborn, let alone have a second child. He'd never in his wildest dreams let himself imagine such things as vacations to Mexico, sailboats, friends, a fulfilling career, any of it. What sort of person got all that back, and whined about living in a perfectly comfortable, completely adequate home his wife had happened to share with her ex?

Agreeing to live here had been an easy concession to make, in the face of the upheaval of Michael's return. He hadn't had to think twice about it: if making this work included staying in this house, he'd told himself, then by God, they'd stay in this house, and Michael would deal with it. And so he had. For over two and a half years. He put up with it because he knew how much it mattered to Sara that she remain rooted during the storm that had been Michael's return and Jacob's exit. She'd needed to plant a flag here, claim this space, show the world that she was not afraid, would not run, would not retreat.

But maybe, hadn't her point been made?

Plenty of reasons to leave had cropped up in the past, things that, while pointing in the direction of a move, had actually made Sara dig her heels in deeper. Things like the gossip they'd endured from neighborhood moms and school acquaintances. Things like the bedroom she'd shared with Jacob, which, despite its proximity to their sons' rooms, still remained non-functional, used only by Lincoln on his occasional visits. Things like their longing for Chicago, their contentment there when they visited. Then there had been more serious concerns, like the fact that Jacob knew where to find them, should he ever decide to misbehave in prison again. Or the fact that others could find them also, as evidenced by an unexpected ambush from Jacob's mother, just days after Jacob's arrest. Michael had opened the front door to the smartly dressed woman completely unaware of her identity that day, thinking she must be a neighbor. Comprehension only dawned when Sara appeared at his side, greeting her with a pained, "This can't happen, Denise. You can't be here."

"Sara," the woman had pleaded, moving right past Michael into the house, her voice quaking as she'd tried to grasp Sara's hands. "Can't you do something? Why won't you help him?"

Sara been forced to turn away, leaving it to Michael to try to expose the facts amid whatever fiction her son had told her. In the end, he'd handed the poor woman the card of a CIA contact for more information on what exactly had happened, and shut the door firmly in her face.

"She's a nice person," Sara had lamented, head in her hands, as Michael had reminded her that any contact could be dangerous for them. "She watched Mike every Tuesday."

Denise didn't give up, commencing a letter-writing campaign shortly thereafter, with pleas to visit Mike, to 'get to the bottom of this', to 'maintain ties'. They considered a restraining order, knowing Jacob's mother could easily gain access to Mike's school, but eventually, some time before Henry's birth, the letters slowed, then stopped. Though saddened by the entire ordeal, Sara had taken this as a victory…an example of standing her ground.

"I won't be run out of my own house," Sara told Michael firmly, when he'd gently questioned the safety of remaining at the address she'd shared with Jacob. Sara was done escaping things. If a move was to be made, Michael knew it would need to be in the spirit of stepping forward, not fleeing _from_.

Working from this perspective, Michael perused real estate listings periodically in a particular area, for a particular reason he wasn't ready to share with Sara yet. Until he found the perfect property, until he'd fully researched every pro and con of this idea that was forming in his mind, he wouldn't burden her with it. Because unless, after doing his homework, he truly believed this opportunity to be in the absolute best interest of their family, he'd never ask Sara to consider it.

So he kept his search to himself, though he suspected she'd noticed some evasive behavior on his part in regard to his browser history. He knew this might get problematic, but when he was forced to shut his internet browser abruptly when Sara came up behind him at his desk on a weekday evening late that spring, she merely said, "That's the second time in a week I've caught you doing that. A less understanding wife might wonder what you're hiding."

"Would you believe I'm looking at birthday gifts for you?" he tried with a smile.

"In June? No." But with a raised eyebrow, she simply bent to kiss the top of his head and departed the room. He decided for the hundredth time that he didn't deserve her.

The next time he prevented her glimpse of his screen, however, when she'd hoped to check her work schedule, she frowned, finally out of patience. "Honestly, Michael. What are you doing?" Twenty-one-month-old Henry lurched from her hip to reach the keyboard, and she stopped his fingers from making contact just in time.

He took Henry from her, setting him down on the chair to wrestle his shoes onto his feet. They'd be late to Mike's school if they didn't stay on task. "Can you trust me a little longer?" he requested, buying time. He knew it was asking too much, but he also knew she'd say yes. "I want to show you something, but not yet."

* * *

After dinner that night, Mike claimed to be homework free - it was the final week of school, after all - and retreated to his room to work on his latest passion: 3-D combination puzzles. He wasn't trying to solve them…he'd already done that, from the traditional Rubik's cube to mastermorphix to Sudoku cube. Now he was creating them, having moved beyond his maze drawing phase months ago. Michael studied him from the doorway for a moment; Mike lay on his stomach on the floor, a ruler in one hand, graphing paper and plastic math cubes in the other, making who-knew-what, exactly. He was so focused, he didn't even notice his father's presence. Michael frowned. "Mike?"

He looked up. "Oh, hey, Dad."

"How about playing outside for a while? It's really nice out." Downstairs, Henry toddled around on the grass below Mike's window, happy to claim ownership of Mike's soccer ball.

"Maybe tomorrow." He spread the cubes out on the floor in complex groupings by color, his lips moving as he made calculations on his graphing paper. He'd asked for the cubes for his birthday this spring, a surprising request given that he'd last used cubes like these when his kindergarten teacher had introduced addition. A quick scan of Mike's paper told Michael he was using them now for what amounted to quantitative algebra, though Mike didn't know to call it that.

"Why don't you see if Dylan can play? You have a few hours before bedtime."

Mike considered this only briefly. "He doesn't really get this stuff, and I don't like having to explain things to people all the time."

Michael sighed. "No, I understand that, but you could do something else. Soccer, or LEGOs?"

"Nah. I'm close to getting this."

Michael nodded. "Alright." He laid a hand on Mike's head briefly, but his son was already deeply engrossed again. He didn't glance up.

Outside, Sara sat on the patio, watching Henry roll himself into Mike's goal along with the ball. He smiled happily at Michael when he saw him, his face sweaty and dirty. He wasn't yet two, but already bore grass stains on his pants routinely. The contrast between his sons' activities made Michael smile, though a bit guardedly. He worried about Mike, and what he needed to tell Sara now didn't ease his trepidation at all. He sat down next to her.

"Mr. House asked for a parent-teacher conference this week, before school is out," he told her quietly. "Can you check your schedule?"

"A conference now?" she asked in surprise. "Isn't third grade basically a wrap?"

"But what about fourth grade, Sara?" he asked softly. She knew as well as he did that grade level was a fluid distinction for Mike. He had done seventh or eight grade work in third grade, which had already been beyond the curriculum offered by even Mr. House's advanced TAG classroom at his elementary school. Michael knew Mike loved his class, but there was no denying it: "I know what House is going to tell us," Michael said. "He's outgrown the school."

Sara ran her hands through her hair in agitation. "What's he supposed to do, go into 9th grade next year?" She scoffed, then sobered at Michael's helpless shrug. "Michael! That's _high school._ There's absolutely no way."

"What are our options?" The local private school had even fewer resources for students like Mike than their public district.

"What about homeschooling him?" She looked at Michael somewhat desperately.

Michael could do that, if he reduced his clients by at least half, but…"You really want him around other kids _less_ often?" He nodded toward the house behind them, where Mike worked solo on his puzzles. Isolating him further seemed like a bad idea.

Sara shook her head mutely. "No." She rose to cross the grass to Henry, who now lay on his back, working studiously to unknot and re-knot the nylon rope of the goal. Without a doubt, his intelligence matched his brother's, but Henry seemed freer, somehow, better able to bridge the gap between his own headspace and the natural world around him. Or perhaps it was simply his age; Michael hadn't observed Mike at age two, he reminded himself mercilessly.

When Sara returned to the patio, Henry now engaged in a battle of wills with his mother, he relieved her of the toddler, bending to place a kiss to Sara's furrowed brow as he rose. "We'll figure it out," he assured her. Henry mimicked a smacking motion with his own lips on a chant of 'Dada, Dada, Dada', until, smiling, Michael kissed him, too. "I'll draw his bath," he told Sara, trailing a hand over her hair as he turned toward the house. "You check your schedule."

* * *

They met with Mr. House in the school office later that week, on an extended lunch break for Sara. Walking in, she was surprised to see the principal and Mike's third grade classroom teacher sitting around the conference table as well. "Dr. Scofield, Mr. Scofield, thank you for your time." Mr. House shook both their hands with a smile. "I think you know how highly we regard Mike."

"But you can no longer accommodate him," Michael said, without preamble. Sara threw him a glance. They didn't _know_ that, yet.

Mr. House glanced toward the principal and took a breath. "I'm afraid that's correct. Mike is an extraordinary student, as you know, performing well beyond the elementary level."

"But he's thrived in the TAG classroom," Sara reminded them. "Is he a problem in class?" she asked. "Acting bored or disruptive?"

Mr. House shook his head quickly. "No, nothing like that."

"That's because he enjoys it," Sara told him. "The work you give him there is engaging." At least, it was engaging enough. She didn't see why this couldn't continue.

"Dr. Scofield - Sara - this year, Mike's curriculum consisted almost completely of independent study. With twenty other students in my room, all working at various levels, I lack the hours in the day to do much more for him than set textbooks on his desk for him to consume. Frankly, I want better for him."

Sara hadn't known this.

"We'd like to recommend we try to obtain an IEP for Mike, which would require the district to come up with some sort of solution."

"An Independent Education Plan?" Sara knew immediately what this meant. "No," she said quickly. "No additional testing."

Dr. Kate had wanted to IQ test Mike, the school counselor had already seconded this motion, but Sara remained adamantly against. She looked to Michael for support. He knew how she felt and why: to Sara, placing a number by Mike's name felt foolhardy. What if, in conjunction with his last name, his potential caught the attention of the wrong people? God knew they were out there. It was a hard fear to explain to others, who hadn't lived through what Sara and Michael had.

But Michael laid a hand on her arm. "Let's hear them out." He ignored her frown at his betrayal, and asked, "Let's say we could quantify Mike's potential on paper. Doing so doesn't change the fact that he will need 9th grade level work next year. How can this school accommodate that, IEP or no?"

Mr. House leaned back in his chair and sighed. "It can't. He'd need to take classes at the high school, but at least he'd be permitted to do so."

Sara shook her head again. "No way is my nine-year-old going to high school for classes," she repeated.

At least on this point, Michael agreed. "What about a personal aide, a tutor?"

"Shadowing him in class here? That sort of support is for disciplinary purposes, Mr. Scofield. It would only isolate Mike, punishing him in the eyes of his peers for no reason at all."

Michael exhaled heavily as Sara looked between him and the school staff, at a loss.

* * *

Driving home, Sara let her head rest heavily against the seat back, eyes pinched closed. "I don't know what we should do for him," she said.

Michael drove silently for a moment, then said, "I think you do."

She felt stubborn denial settle in, consuming her darkly from head to toe. "Like you said, what good does knowing a number do?"

"I think," Michael said slowly, "we may be at a point where we need to know, definitively, what we're dealing with."

"Why?" She knew the question sounded argumentative, almost whiny, but she really meant it.

Unexpectedly, Michael eased out of traffic, pulling the car over to the curb. He put it in park and turned to face her. "Because Sara, I've been thinking about this for a while, this problem of Mike running out of options here." He took her hand, resting in her lap, and ran the pad of his thumb gently over her knuckles. She knew he did this to soothe her, which now, had the opposite effect.

"What do you mean, you've been thinking about it?" She didn't tug her hand away, but half wanted to. He was looking very serious.

"There's a school I've been looking into," he said, "that might be perfect for Mike. Other kids at his level, his age. No more classes with older students. STEM courses, advanced tracks in mathematics, music, languages…it's hard to get into, and it's expensive, but - "

"But it's not _here_ ," she finished for him.

"No."

"Michael, this is where we live." She heard herself put undo emphasis on each word.

He released her hand to cup her face in both palms. Again, she wanted to shake off his touch, but also didn't want to. "But it doesn't have to be, sweetheart." He looked at her almost pleadingly. "We can live anywhere. We can do anything we want." She tried to look down, and he stroked her cheek, brushing her hair back from her face. "It's like the _Taj_ ," he said. "We bought her because we can go anywhere we want on her. Nothing can stop us."

"Michael…"

"It's the same, Sara, with Ithaca. If we _want_ to go, we can go. We are not tied here, and if we left, we would not be running."

She looked up at him, grasping one of his hands, the one tucking her hair back behind her ear. "But my job is here," she said.

He nodded. "And we don't _have_ to go anywhere," he repeated. "But if we decided we _wanted_ to, there are other jobs for you. I am sure of that."

She released a shaky breath, feeling resignation sink in, pinning her to the seat. "Where is the school?" He just looked at her for long moment, and then she knew the answer. "Chicago?"

"Yes."

She closed her eyes. Could she do that? Could she return?

"You love Chicago," he said softly. "You miss it, I know you do."

Chicago also filled her with fear and longing and regret and a dozen other confusing emotions. " _You_ miss it," she half-accused.

"I do," he agreed. "I miss living near Lincoln, and I miss LJ and Sucre. I miss the lake and the museums and the El and even the traffic. I'd like to raise Mike and Henry where we both have history…where you and I have history, not where you and Jacob have history."

Guilt sluiced through her. "You've never really said, before," she protested. "Not in so many words. You've never complained."

"And I never will again, if your answer is no to this." He tugged his hand from hers to cup her face again. "I will stay here with you forever, and consider myself lucky every single day."

God. Why did he have to be so good at these speeches? She grasped his hand again, planting a kiss to his palm. "I'm not interested in holding you hostage," she said shakily. "Maybe let's…just look at this school?"

He kissed the side of her nose, then her mouth softly. "I'd like that. But Sara?" He pulled back to watch her face. "Mike needs to be tested before we decide if he should apply."

* * *

They arranged for Mike to take his IQ test at Dr. Kate's office, where, Michael reasoned, he'd feel most comfortable outside their own home. They took care not to make a big deal out of it; in fact, Michael only mentioned it to Mike in passing before the day of the test, explaining it was just something his teachers and Dr. Kate needed for their records. Sara refused to acknowledge it at all.

In the car on the way to Dr. Kate's, Mike said to both parents nervously, "But I didn't study for this test."

"It's not a test you need to study for," Michael said lightly.

"Not important at all, baby," Sara added, which made MIke's eyes narrow in suspicion.

"Then why are you both coming?"

Michael glanced in the rearview mirror. "Mom and I will talk with Dr. Kate while you're with the person giving your test. Remember? Dr. Kate can't administer it."

Mike nodded. "'Cause she knows me so it wouldn't be fair."

"That's right."

"Is it a math test?"

"No, no," Sara said. "More like…patterns and puzzles. That sort of thing. You'll probably think it's fun." She said this last part with wry humor.

"Okay," Mike said, but he worried his lip between his teeth in his so-very-Sara way.

When they got to the office, Dr. Kate told them the proctor had already arrived, and was set up for Mike in the art therapy room. Michael walked Mike down the hall, a hand on his shoulder. He looked so small, next to him, the crown of his head bent as though under a weight, his jaw still working rhythmically as he bit his lip. Michael knew that despite best intentions, he and Sara had done a dismal job of pretending this test didn't matter. They got to the door and Mike started to turn the handle.

"Hey," Michael said, before Mike could enter the room alone. "Look at me." Mike looked up. "If this isn't fun like Mom said, if you don't like doing it, you can just be done, okay? Tell the proctor your dad said so. Just walk out, and I'll be right here."

Mike's mouth lifted in a slight smile. "Okay, Dad," he whispered.

They waited with Kate, who tried to engage them in conversation removed from the test, but eventually gave up. "What's wrong, Sara?" she finally asked in defeat.

Sara stared down the hallway where Mike had disappeared. It had already been an hour, and they could expect the test to last at least another. "I _know_ he thinks the way Michael does. I don't need a test to tell me that."

"You mean he calculates things the way Michael does," Kate clarified. "Problem solves the way he does. Because Mike actually engages with the world more like you do, Sara. He's compassionate. He's careful and patient. You raised him alone during some very formative years, and you can believe he watched you, and he emulated you."

This seemed to concern Sara even more, but it reassured Michael a great deal. Even if Mike had been gifted and/or cursed with his IQ level, he had Sara to help shape what that meant, which was far more than Michael had ever had.

"He's going to be fine, no matter what the results," Michael agreed. "He's half you," he told Sara, smiling at her. "Try not to forget that."

* * *

Dr. Kate called them when the test results came in, over two weeks later. Honestly, between a busy work schedule, a new patient she'd agreed to sponsor, and Mike out of school for the summer, Sara had almost managed to put the test out of her mind. Since it seemed Mike had forgotten about it too, Sara and Michael decided to drive over the the therapist's office without him, setting up a playdate first at Dylan's house. Heather had jumped at the chance to babysit Henry, as well.

Kate brought them into her office, a change from the usual therapy room. Once she'd settled behind her desk, she slid a thick manila envelope, sealed, across the desk to them. "This will be a breakdown of all the subtests and Mike's answers," she explained. "His score is listed in there, or, you can see here, first." She indicated her computer monitor.

"Let's see the score and then look through the breakdown," Michael decided. Sara nodded, and Dr. Kate started to swivel the screen to face them, then stopped.

"I want to remind you first…" She paused, clearly choosing her words carefully. Sara bit back impatience. "This number does not define Mike," Kate said. "We talked about that, remember?" She turned the screen, and they read the number.

Next to her, Michael said, "Huh," in an oddly strangled way, like the last of his breath had been snatched from his chest, but Sara could only stare. Because holy mother of God, the number was high. It was _so_ high, higher than Michael's, which she could still see in her mind's eye on his Fox River chart, jumping out at her like an exclamation point in black ink on faded copy paper. "Oh my God," she heard herself lament, like a whimper, before laying her head straight down on the desk. "No, no."

"Sara?" Michael said. But she couldn't lift her head.

Kate sounded baffled. "Sara, this number is rare, but not _bad_."

She lifted her head with difficulty. Everything felt so heavy, suddenly. "Everything will be harder for him," she said. "Think of how hard it was for you," she told Michael.

"He's not me," Michael told her firmly, his hand coming to rest hesitantly on her back. "He doesn't have the childhood I had."

"It will still be hard." Should they formally test him for LLI? What else? IQs this high didn't come without other issues attached.

"He's the same person he was before he took the test," Kate reminded her. "The absolute same."

"Can this even be accurate?" Sara asked a bit desperately. "He's a child."

"And he still is," Kate replied firmly. Sara appreciated that the therapist didn't bother to underscore the accuracy of the test. They both already knew it was legit.

"But what do we do with this number?" Michael asked slowly. Sara shuddered to think what _his_ mother would have done, what she undoubtedly had done, when Michael had been younger than Mike. Had he been sent to Company psychologists? Groomed for a life like his parents'? Michael said the details before his mother's so-called funeral had always been hazy.

"You treat him exactly like the kid he's always been," Kate repeated. She hesitated. "But there are programs he could benefit from. Ways to challenge him. I know you two are discussing some changes, and while I'd truly hate to lose you, I have to advise that Mike needs a stronger education program than his public school here can provide."

Sara felt Michael's eyes on her. She nodded. There was really no denying that they needed to take Mike's education more seriously.

Still: "Nothing is decided right now," she insisted. Kate set a hand on her arm, looking truly saddened at the thought of Sara leaving. This touched her unexpectedly. Just another reason Sara wasn't at all sold on the idea of a move. "Whether we stay in Ithaca or not, we'll need to block out some time to talk with you about a plan for Mike moving forward," Sara added firmly. She felt Michael's hand again on the small of her back, in support.

"I'm here for you all," Dr. Kate promised, "whatever you decide you need."

* * *

"How did I do on that big test, anyway?" Mike finally asked one summer evening, just as Sara walked in the door from work, still shrugging out of her lab coat. Michael laid dinner on the table, lifting Henry into his booster seat and setting a toddler-friendly appetizer of buttered noodles in front of him to keep him occupied until they could all sit down.

"Uh, you did excellent, Mike," he said, adding automatically, "Don't forget to wash your hands."

Mike moved to the sink to wash up. "But what was my score? Did I get an A?"

Sara paused mid-kiss to the top of Henry's head. His face, hands, and even arms were already well-buttered. "Yes, definitely an A." Her voice sounded tight.

"So I can go on to fourth grade?"

"What?" Michael looked at him sharply from the stovetop, while behind him, he heard Sara exhale hard.

"Is _that_ what you thought the test was for?"

Mike nodded. "I guess so, since school needed to know." He sat down next to Henry, taking care to stay out of arm's reach. Henry gamely pushed a few noodles across the table in his direction anyway.

Sara bent over Mike, embracing him tightly. "No, baby. Of _course_ you're moving up to fourth grade. You know you've already done fourth grade work, several years ago."

"Oh good," Mike said with obvious relief, prompting Michael to burn his fingers on the dish coming out of the oven in his distraction. He deserved worse. How could they have let Mike think this?

Clearly, Sara agreed. She flung a distraught look toward Michael, then said, "Mike, we would have explained that test better had we known you were worried about that."

Mike, however, still basked in the glow of his perceived close call. "As long as I passed, it's fine, Mom."

"Ha," Sara agreed, her voice adapting a somewhat manic edge. "Yeah, you passed, Mike."

Obvious to his parents' distress, he beamed at both Michael and Sara happily as they sat down for dinner. Remorse forced Michael to look away; to mask it, he heard himself instructing Mike gruffly not to ignore the broccoli on his plate. Mike obeyed this request as earnestly as he followed every other instruction from his father, stabbing broccoli with relish. Michael swallowed another lump of guilt. Mike would do anything to please them. How had Michael failed to recognize the awesome responsibility of this?

Mercifully, Mike let the test subject drop, and they spent the meal discussing other things: Mike's recent soccer victory, Henry's latest additions to his vocabulary, which included the ability to string a variety of nouns to the word 'want', and a particularly interesting project of Michael's, which, at Mike's prompting, he illustrated for them with rolled napkins and silverware. After the dishes had been cleared and Mike had been set to work at the sink, Sara found Michael in the office.

"I won't live on the South Loop, in Bucktown, or River North, so you can just eliminate those neighborhoods from your secret search right now," she said without preamble.

He looked at her in surprise, then let a small smile tug at his mouth. "I can work within those perimeters."

"Because I know how you think, and I have no interest in buying a home just for the sake of owning the most expensive real estate possible. Those neighborhoods are pretentious."

"Alright," Michael agreed quickly. He glanced at his computer screen covertly. "How do you feel about Lincoln Park?"

She pursed her lips. "You _know_ how I feel about it." He did: she'd grown up there, right off Amitage Avenue. Her best childhood years had been spent there, while her mother had been well. She took a step closer to his computer screen. "You're not playing fair."

If it wasn't 'fair' to hunt down the perfect house, one she'd fall in love with, that he hoped could make her very, very happy, then yes, guilty as charged. "Okay," he told her. "I'm sure something good will pop up elsewhere."

She made an impatient noise low in her throat. "Oh, let me see," she relented, moving around him to study the screen. She sank into his chair, scrolling through listings. "Prices have gone up," she observed.

"We can - "

"Afford it, yes, yes," she finished for him testily. Her eyes scanned the many entries guardedly, clearly trying to remain dispassionate, and then suddenly her finger froze on the trackpad. "Oh," she said softly. "Look."

She studied a newly renovated three-story brick row house off Oz Park. It was gorgeous without being ostentatious, big but not sprawling, gentrified but not stuffy. Michael felt pretty sure Sara hadn't seen the price listed yet, and he itched to hide it off-screen. "I love this," she breathed.

"Yeah?" He kissed her temple, brushing her hair back from her face to admire her cheekbone in profile, which he kissed next. "Maybe we need to go see it."

She thought about this, clearly torn. "Show me the school?" she asked.

He opened a new browser window, and took her through the website, pointing out the numerous advantages for Mike. "It goes through 12th grade, and isn't far from Loyola…an easy commute, if he wants to go there one day."

"Except he'll be going to Northwestern," she corrected with a smug smile, and he laughed lightly.

"If he attends this school, Sara, he can probably go anywhere he wants to college," he noted softly. "Anywhere at all." She looked through the web pages carefully, and couldn't deny it was ideal. Still, she glanced toward the kitchen, where their son finished up the dishes. "But he loves his class," she sighed. "And his friends, Dylan, the soccer team? I can't bear to take all that away from him."

Michael didn't take the uprooting of their lives lightly, either. "But he's so resilient, Sara," he told her. "Think of all he's taken in stride. He'll have to start a new school either way, but if we're all together, if he has you and he sees you being strong, he'll be alright." He always had been, thanks to Sara. And this way, Henry could grow up knowing only Chicago, without Ithaca a part of his conscious childhood at all…something that appealed to Michael, when he was being honest with himself. He looked back at Sara, her face washed in the glow from the computer screen as she read about the school. In this moment, with her hair down, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration, she looked so like he'd first seen her, under the artificial light of her infirmary. "Aren't you ready to go home?" he asked her gently.

* * *

She was. She was finally ready. Reflecting back, Sara decided she'd actually been ready since Henry's birth, when Michael had sat beside her on her hospital bed, the baby tucked between them, and invited her to finally be free with him. To sail off to points unknown. It had just taken her almost another two years - of visits to Chicago, of sails on Ontario and Huron - to make her peace with it.

They decided to take a scouting trip, leaving the kids behind for their first trip away together ever. Greeted at O'Hare by a typical midwestern lightning storm, the July heat caused Sara's shirt to stick to her skin, and the humidity practically caught in her lungs. "You sure about this?" she asked Michael wryly as they waited for their car, trying to peel her hair from the back of her neck, but he was too busy checking in with Heather and Larry for the dozenth time to answer her. While she had been content (excited, even) to leave the kids in their care for a few days, Michael seemed to be going through withdrawals.

"Sorry, what?" he said.

"Stop texting them," Sara chided. "You want them too distracted to see Henry escape out the front door?"

Michael frowned at her. "Don't even say that." But he stashed his phone in his pocket for the time being.

They didn't tell Lincoln or anyone else they were in town. This resulted in a small measure of guilt, which Sara pushed aside: if this trip was successful, they'd see a lot more of their family and friends from here on out. The next few days needed to be about only her and Michael, and whether this move felt completely right to both of them. This was no vacation: Sara had outlined a full schedule for them, starting with meetings with a real estate agent and the headmaster of the school they were considering, then several informal interviews for positions in clinics in the city.

Michael studied her agenda in the car while she drove. "You have a job interview in Fuller Park?" he frowned. "And Riverdale?" He got out his phone, this time probably to check current crime stats.

"They don't put as many rehab clinics uptown," she replied, adding, "though they should."

She could tell he wanted to say more about the less-than-desirable locations of these potential employers, but she also knew he wouldn't dare. He knew she wanted to work where she'd make a difference, and she knew to apply where her credentials and experience would be most desirable (and most desperately needed). If her concerns about being un-hirable in Chicago proved true, they wouldn't be moving, no matter how much income Michael's career made for them each year.

Said income pre-approved them for almost any house in their desired Lincoln Park neighborhood, a fact their new real estate agent embraced enthusiastically, insisting on showing them a long list of properties before finally getting to the one Sara had wanted to see most. When they pulled up to the curb, she jumped out of the car with newfound energy, studying the house from the sidewalk. It looked exactly as advertised in the listing: a iron-wrought fence and gate (no match for Henry) led to front stone steps and a wide front stoop, ending at a duo of oversized double-paned windows and an ornate front door. Two additional stories rose above the first level, ending in a trio of dormer windows at the top floor.

Michael caught up to her and squeezed her hand. "How's your poker face?" he asked.

"Hmm?" She was busy examining the detail work on the historically-restored shutters.

He nodded back toward the real estate agent. "He already knows I'm going to cave to whatever you want, so do us a favor and try not to look like you want this _quite_ so much."

She just smiled at him as the agent led them inside, where she turned in a circle around the warm, well-lit foyer. "Probably too late," she whispered. And the more she saw, the more she loved this house: the open, farmhouse-style kitchen, the mahogany-paneled library that could double as Michael's office, the five bedrooms, two of which lay in close proximity to the master. "No more hiking the stairs to get to the kids," she told him happily.

"That's a pretty standard feature, Sara," he reminded her mildly.

They checked out the top level, which had excellent potential as a play space, guest quarters, or both, then Sara stopped short at the end of the room. "Michael. Look." French doors led to a rooftop patio complete with outdoor fireplace and furniture, a small garden edging the high fence enclosing the space. "I don't even think Henry could climb over this," she said, studying the wall.

"Is Henry your dog?" the agent asked pleasantly.

Michael chuckled, bending to study the integrity of the fencing along the patio for himself. He'd even donned his glasses for this. "Uh no, our son." He noted the man's odd look. "He's almost two, and has yet to meet a wall, gate, or fence he can't find his way over or through."

From this vantage point, Sara could survey the backyard, which looked to be well-enclosed and private, with enough open space for Mike's soccer goal. When Michael joined her at the back wall, she didn't bother to hide her enthusiasm. "It's perfect," she told him, grasping his hand on the rail. He nodded thoughtfully, eyes narrowing to look for water damage or structural abnormalities in the brick siding.

"There's a lovely park just across the street," the agent added, "well-lit, safe. And the schools in this neighborhood are excellent."

Michael turned to face him. "What about security?" he asked. "I want to see the home alarm system, the deadbolt configurations, the window locks, any built-ins and safes, all of it." When the agent looked slightly intimidated, he added, "It's what I do."

"Home security?" The agent led them back downstairs.

"More like _everything_ security," Sara offered.

Michael added simply, "Especially when it comes to my family."

* * *

Back in their rental car, the agent's card secure in his breast pocket, Michael had Sara drive again, so he could read through all the information on the house supplied by both the agency and public domain… exact acreage and square footage, any easements, property taxes and energy efficiency, renovation history…everything. He could tell she tried to stay quiet, at least until she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Whatever it's lacking, you can add," she suggested.

"True," he agreed noncommittally.

She drove in silence for a little longer, then added, "Did you notice that built-in storage unit upstairs? Mike would love to turn that into a fort."

"Mmmhmm."

More silence, but this time, only until the next light. "It's only 20 minutes from Lincoln's place."

"I noted that."

"Michael!" He looked over at her. "Tell me what you think!"

He lowered the paper, adjusting his glasses as he glanced sidelong at her. He tried not to smile. "Relax, Sara. I like it."

"But do you like it as much as I do?" she practically wailed.

He finally allowed his smile to grow wide. "Probably more," he admitted. She laughed in triumph, grinning back at him, eyes dancing, until he he was forced to squeeze her knee with his free hand, adding, "Green light."

"Oh!" They both laughed again, and he let his hand linger there, on her thigh, as they talked logistics (they'd put in an offer only after she saw how her interviews went the next day), and then let it slide a bit north as they discussed dinner plans.

"We can go out," he offered, "or," and he slid his hand a little higher still, running his fingers across her leg playfully, "we already know we like the room service at the hotel."

She arched an eyebrow at him as she eased into downtown traffic. Even through the fabric of her jeans, Michael felt the heat of her muscle against his palm. "Room service works for me," she said.

He squeezed her leg again. "Good answer."

* * *

Sable Academy wasn't anything like Sara had expected, even after viewing the school online and through printed materials. It was far better. Named after the founder of Chicago, Sable was an old institution that had seen many reincarnations over its decades of history. It was located near the house they wanted, but nothing about the school suggested elitism. The kids entering the building as Sara and Michael made their way to their meeting in the administration office didn't wear uniforms, and didn't exude the intense, stressed air Sara remembered from years in exclusive private schools.

The headmaster, too, seemed relaxed and friendly, his shirtsleeves already rolled up at 8 am, as though ready to tackle the day. He took them on a tour of the grounds, pointing out science labs, drafting tables and computers, art studios, and music halls, and whereas Sara had been the one clearly sold on the house yesterday, Michael practically drooled over the academy today. His reaction made Sara ache for the child he had been, right here in this city, struggling through years of boredom and bullying in public school. The potential lost, denying someone like him this type of education, took her breath away.

They weaved between students as they walked the halls, prompting them to ask about the kids' apparent freedom to roam. "Most of our schedule centers around independent projects and group collaboration," the headmaster told them, "with a fluid approach to curriculum. Whatever a student is interested to learn next, that's what he or she learns." Sara's mind went to all Mike's projects he labored over, clearly driven by some internal compass that pointed from mathematics to physics to chemistry to who knew what else and back again. She glanced at Michael, knowing he was thinking of the same thing.

Back in the office, the headmaster asked for Mike's file from elementary school, which Sara dug out of her bag and slid across the desk. It was fat, stacked with examples of his work and four years of state standardized test scores, in addition to the IQ test results. She knew the contents painted Mike in a good light, but she still didn't enjoy the feeling that, unbeknownst to her son, enjoying a summer day with Dylan in Ithaca, she was allowing him to be judged in this office on paper alone. She fought the impulse to snatch the file back.

The headmaster glanced through the material only briefly, however, pausing only on the IQ score. "Does he have a psych file?" he asked, but not in an alarmed way.

They'd known to expect this question. Anyone with Mike's IQ score probably did. She slid that across the desk, too. Dr. Kate had filled out a formal assessment for them in addition to noting two years of sessions. No need to explain that Mike's intelligence hadn't been what originally prompted them to seek counseling.

A few minutes later, they were back outside, armed with a formal application and the headmaster's assurance that admission could be expedited to allow Mike to start in September should he be admitted. "Two for three," Sara said, getting into the car. She glanced at Michael nervously. Just one piece of the puzzle left to fall into place.

"Your interviews are going to go great," he told her bracingly.

* * *

The first one definitely didn't. Sara actually disliked the clinic from the moment she stepped in the front door, which, mercifully, took a great deal of the pressure off. The staff seemed unorganized and worse, disinterested, and their interaction with the patients and overall community seemed combative, not collaborative. She interviewed with the director, who made her wait, sitting across the desk from him, while he studied her resume for a long time, despite the fact that he'd had it at his disposal for days. This alone told Sara he was an asshole. Then he glanced up at her and said four words she should have expected but which still immediately disarmed her with their irony.

"Tancredi like the governor?"

She managed a flat, "Yes." Before he could say it, she added, "And Scofield like Fox River."

He eyed her contemplatively. His look reminded Sara of a cat, toying with a mouse. She disliked knowing which role she played in this analogy. "I was working for the county when all that went down," he mused. "Had a buddy at the sheriff department. He lost his pension over that search."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Wife left him not long after, as I recall."

Sara refused to let her voice crack. "That's too bad." They stared at each other for another beat, and then Sara sighed. "So we're done here, right?"

"Thanks for coming in," he told her coldly.

She allowed herself five minutes alone in the car to pull herself together, then carefully wiped any trace of tears from her eyes and headed for the second interview. She called Michael en route.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Exactly how I thought it would go, in this city."

His silence spoke volumes. Finally, he said, "Please skip the next interview, Sara. Just come back to the hotel. You don't have to work."

"But the problem is, we both know I do," she said simply.

The second clinic sat just down the street from Chicago General, which Sara took as probably another bad sign. But she couldn't help reminiscing as she navigated to the address, anyway. The hole-in-the-wall coffee shop she used to patronize almost daily still stood a block from the hospital, next to a pizza by the slice place where she used to meet her boyfriend that first year. She honestly couldn't remember his name: Daniel? Devon? Shit.

She'd waited for the bus right there, at the corner, so many times, freezing at night after her shift, stomping her feet in the cold, seeking warmth from the inadequate shelter over the bench, and later, from the high that buzzed through her veins after work. She sighed.

This clinic felt friendlier, at least to the clientele, who ranged from patients who were clearly homeless to working class mothers and teens. They had an outpatient addiction recovery center here, but also a full health clinic for the under-served, and the place had a productive, earnest vibe. She tried not to allow her hopes to rise.

Once again, she was shown into the director's office for an interview, once again seated across from a man who undoubtedly knew far more about her than she knew about him. She shook his hand.

He began by noting her references from Ithaca, which she knew were stellar. "Your colleagues in New York sing your praises," he told her. "Why are you leaving?"

"I'm from Chicago originally," she said carefully, then decided to cut to the chase. It was ridiculous to dance around her past. "But I'm sure you already know that."

"A Google search of potential employees is pretty standard practice," he conceded. He leaned forward. "Dr. Scofield, here's the deal…"

"Listen," she said, before he could talk. "I have history here, yes. And you can view that as a detriment if you want. You wouldn't be the first. But my history is what makes me good at my job. Great, actually." She glanced at the references in his hand. "I'm _great_ at my job. I know the patients who come in here. I've been them. And unlike some of your employees, who probably just clock in and clock out, I _want_ to be here. I'm sure you're thinking that with my history, I can't find anything better than an under-funded, inner-city clinic, but that's not true. In Ithaca, I could have worked in private practice, in the suburbs, in a professionally decorated office next to a Starbucks. I didn't want to. When I was younger, I worked in Calcutta, which was brutal and awful and also wonderful. Then I worked there," she flung an arm behind her toward the grim concrete mass of Chicago General, "which nearly killed me, and then, as soon as I was well again, I worked in a men's prison. It's what I do."

She took a breath, but wouldn't allow herself to be interrupted yet. "I know this city, and I know what it is to have everything and lose it, in half a dozen different ways. I understand what it means to fall from grace, and I know how hard it is to climb back up. My record is completely clean, as am I, my medical license is in order, and has been for almost nine years, you don't have to worry about any of that…but that's just paper. In reality, I know how it feels to be incarcerated, just like many of your clients. I've been desperate. I've been afraid. I've lost people I love. I also have a family, and I have roots here, and I'm a doctor who still actually _cares_ , and I'm guessing you don't have too many of those beating down your door."

The director stared at her, and she forced herself to stare back, just as she had in the last awful interview, not blinking. "Um," he said, "I was going to say, I've spoken with the board, and the deal is, we already know we want you."

"Oh."

"For pretty much all the reasons you just said, but mostly, to be honest, the last one. We need another MD in here like yesterday."

She allowed herself to experiment with a smile. "Okay, then."

He shook his head, grinning at her. "Shall we talk salary?"

* * *

At the hotel, Michael rose the second he heard the key card in the door. Once glimpse at Sara's face as she walked in, however, and all the tension left his neck and shoulders. "Well?" he said, already smiling.

She flashed him a brand new employee ID card displaying her credentials next to the Cook County emblem.

"You're amazing," he said softly.

"I'm a warm body with a medical license," she countered, but he wouldn't let her get away with that.

"Amazing," he repeated.

She leaned her head into his chest, exhaling in relief. "I'm so glad that's over," she admitted.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she let him absorb her weight. The way she faced opposition in her path head on…it was like watching Mike barrel toward the ball, running out of the goal box without hesitation. Or rather, watching Mike was like watching _her_ , tackling everything in life. "No backlash at this place?" he asked hesitantly.

She smiled at him. "No, except, for some reason, he said he didn't feel comfortable giving me the keys to lock up."

Michael felt the color drain from his face. "He didn't - "

"That's a joke, Michael," she laughed. "Too soon?" Her eyes danced.

He just groaned. She lifted her head to look at him. "I start September first, so we'd better call about our house."

He kissed her hard, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other trying to fish the agent's card out of his pocket.

* * *

They flew home that night after a celebratory dinner, an aggressive offer on the house placed. Michael retrieved Mike and Henry from Heather's house with a promise that Sara would call her in the morning with more details on the fruitfulness of their trip, and they spent the next day filling out the Sable Academy admission form, collecting all the required signatures, waivers, deposits, and immunization records. Michael itched to tell Mike all about the school, but not until he knew for certain he could attend. The process proved a good distraction while they waited for a counter-offer on the house.

On Monday evening, while prepping dinner, Michael stepped around Mike trying (in vain) to teach Henry to line up dominos on the floor, to tell Sara quietly, "We got it."

She beamed at him, then, impulsively, threw herself at him. He caught her with a grin.

"For the asking price?" she clarified.

"A little over," he admitted.

She lifted her eyebrows as if to say, _define 'a little',_ which Michael was able to ignore, thanks to Mike's presence in the kitchen. He barely glanced up from the game, however, well used to witnessing (and enduring) his parents' affection for one another.

Two days after that, the fat acceptance envelope came in the mail from Sable, expedited as promised. They sat Mike down for a talk, waiting until after Henry's bedtime so they could give him their full attention. Michael let Sara take the lead; though the fact sometimes pained him, when it came to seeking emotional support and comfort, Mike still went to Sara by default.

She invited him onto the couch with her, where she tucked an arm around his shoulders and drew him against her. At nine years old, he still let her snuggle up to him like this, further testament, in Michael's opinion, of his attachment to her. Michael sat across the room from them, half-pretending to double-check some contracts for work while Sara spoke to Mike softly, talking to him about their discussion with Mr. House and their need for a new school. As predicted, this news distressed Mike, who burrowed his face further into Sara's side, his fist tangling in her shirt.

"The good news," Sara told him quietly, "is that we've found a really great school for you, one that will feel new at first, but I believe you'll like just as well, if not better, after just a little time."

He lifted his head. "I don't want a new school," he said flatly.

Sara patiently circled back to Point A (your school can't teach you anything more).

"Then I want to go to a new school with my friends," he reasoned. When Sara shook her head regretfully, he added, "Why do I have to leave school, but no one else?" His voice lifted in distress on the last word. "Just me but not Dylan or Maddy or anyone?"

"Well, because they still have things to learn in that school," Sara tried to explain gently. "Fourth grade things that you've already learned."

"I'll just learn them again, then. That's okay."

Michael glanced up. It was tough, reasoning against Mike's black and white rationale. "It's really not okay, Mike," he interjected. "That's not fair to you. You love to learn new things."

Mike swallowed hard, but glanced back at Sara. "Please, Mom." He tugged at her arm, to get her to fully look at him. His face looked teary. "I don't want a new school."

Michael watched torment wash over Sara's face at this platitude, but she held her ground. "And I knew you wouldn't, not at first, but I also know you'll be very happy, later." She tightened her arm around him, rubbing his back in slow circles with the heel of her palm. "I know that because I know you better than anyone in the world, and if for some reason I'm wrong, we'll come back."

Michael grimaced, while Mike's head snapped up. "Back?"

Sara hissed at herself under her breath. "The new school," she admitted, "this school I know you're going to love, is in Chicago, Mike. We'll live there. You know Chicago…Uncle Lincoln is there, and the Field Museum, and…"

But Mike had gone very still. He sat up slowly, looking out from Sara's arm directly at Michael. The school news had upset him, but this news, this was doing something more, causing Mike's jaw to actually shake with nervous energy as he bit his lip savagely. He breathed hard through his nose, still looking unblinkingly at Michael. "If we go to Chicago, where are _you_ going to be?" he asked him tightly, fearfully, even, his voice quivering.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked him. He set his papers down. "Mike?"

But Mike whirled back to Sara. His hand gripped her arm again tightly. "Where's Dad going to be?" he repeated.

Sara looked just as confused as Michael felt. "He'll be with us. Of course."

"In Chicago? All of us?"

"Of course," she said again. Mike's whole body seemed to be shaking now, either in stress or relief or both. "Mike, baby…"

But he wrenched himself from Sara and flung himself at Michael, who caught him as he crashed violently into his chest. "I thought you weren't coming," he cried almost angrily. "I thought even though I love you this much, you weren't going to come with me."

But _why?_ What could Michael have possibly done to give him this impression? He looked at Sara over Mike's head in alarm. "Why would you think that, Mike? I'll go anywhere you and Mom and Henry go. Forever."

Mike fought to catch his breath between hiccuping sobs. He turned to Sara accusingly. "You never talk to me all serious like that, just you and me, except that once, when you told me why Jacob had to go away."

 _Oh_. Absolutely nothing got by Mike, sometimes, to his detriment. "This is my fault," Michael told Mike swiftly, turning him back to look at him. "I thought I'd let Mom tell you because she's better at explaining things." Mike furrowed his brow, and Michael came clean. "The truth is, I wimped out. I didn't want to have to be the one to make you sad about school, so I made Mom do it, because she's so much braver than me."

"Well, that's true," Mike hiccuped, making Michael laugh and Sara smile.

He folded Mike back into his embrace, squeezing him tightly. _"I will never leave,"_ he whispered fiercely in his ear. Pulling back, he added with mock solemnity, "We're all going to move to Chicago, no matter what Henry has to say about it."

This earned him a smile from Mike. "Henry won't even care."

"But we know you do, Mike," Sara said, "and even though this was a decision your father and I had to make for you, we made it _for you_. Does that make sense?"

This nuance might have been lost on another kid (and Michael wasn't even thinking of Mike's IQ), but it wasn't lost on Mike. He nodded slowly. "But…I'm still not sure I want to," he whispered.

"I know," Sara agreed sadly, and Michael crossed to the couch to join her, pulling Mike with him.

"But once you get used to the idea," Michael told him, sandwiching Mike between them, "I want to tell you all about this new school, because it's so awesome, I think I might go, too."

"Really?" Mike looked both intrigued and alarmed.

"No," Michael smiled, "but I wish I could. And you're going to love our new house. We already made sure there's room in the yard for your soccer goal, and there's a park right across the street."

"Did you buy something way too fancy, Dad?" Mike eyed him suspiciously.

"He's got you figured out," Sara laughed, "but no. _I_ picked this house."

"Do you love it, Mom?" he asked in his heartbreakingly tender way. "Because if you do, I'll try to, too." Sara nodded tightly, kissing his cheek. They showed him photos, and told him how close it was to LJ and Uncle Linc, and reassured him there was plenty of room for Dylan to come visit. Then they let him stay up well past bedtime, looking through pictures of Sable Academy, and reading about the various classes and programs.

"And we'll bring the _Taj,_ and dock her in Lake Michigan, and take her out much more often than we can now," Michael added, since he knew how much Mike enjoyed sailing.

By the time they tucked him into bed, overtired and emotionally-spent, Mike seemed much more at peace with these changes his parents had yanked him into, if not entirely comfortable. "I still wish we could all just stay here," he admitted sleepily to Michael, as he kissed him goodnight. He brushed his son's hair back from his forehead, studying his familiar face in the weak glow of his nightlight. "I know," Michael told him, "but sometimes, change is a good thing. A necessary thing."

"Be the change you want to see in the world," Mike mumbled sleepily. "That's what Mom likes to say."

Michael's lips twitched in the dark. "That was Mom? This whole time, I thought it was Gandhi."

Mike groaned into his pillow on a chagrined laugh. "That's a dumb joke, Dad."

"Yeah, Mom thought so, too, once."

But they were both still smiling as Michael quietly left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Something New is going to be a multi-chapter, and this one picks up after the first. I'm seeking to address the rather numerous requests for an addition to the Scofield household; this is how I think that would go down. Without giving away my plot, there's a possible trigger warning in this chapter. If you want to know more, message me. Lastly, for some reason, my missing scene fic from S4, Florida, that I wrote last week didn't update on the main page. Just so you all know it's there...look on my author page instead, I guess.**

It took Michael and Sara two weeks to box up everything they wanted to keep from the Ithaca house, then sold the rest, including almost all the furniture. Sara picked out a few pieces to bring along, and insisted she didn't care about the rest. In contrast, Mike packed up virtually his entire room, unwilling to part with anything. Michael let this go…whatever made the difficulty of change slightly less difficult for Mike worked for him.

The day the movers came with the truck that would carry their belongings to Chicago, Heather stood on the sidewalk and cried, and Sara refused to cry, and Mike kicked his soccer ball hard against the garage door all afternoon, delaying his goodbye with Dylan, and Michael felt guilty and uncertain, like maybe he had unnecessarily caused everyone misery. But then they were on the _Taj,_ just him and Sara and Mike and Henry, on the water of Lake Ontario, en route to the first of the canals that would carry them slowly across the Great Lakes to the shore of Lake Michigan, and everything seemed simple and obvious and easy.

"What's easy about a toddler on a sailboat for nine days again?" Sara asked with a lift of one eyebrow, but she was smiling as she said it, and that was the important thing. Besides, the cost to ship the _Taj_ overland to Chicago had been astounding. Far better to sail her there themselves.

"Think of it as a vacation, before we have to unpack and move in," he told her, earning him an eye roll.

"I don't think you understand the meaning of the term 'vacation'", she argued, snagging Henry by the handle at the back of his small life jacket for the half-dozenth time as he gamely tried to hurl himself from the deck of the boat.

But Michael most certainly did know: vacation meant endless hours of enforced, perfect togetherness. It meant mornings teaching Mike everything about nautical navigation, and afternoons wrestling Henry, evenings docked at rented slips, grilling dinner, and nights below deck with Sara, their sleeping children nestled in their bunks beside them. By the time they reached Chicago, yes, they were more than a little sick of the boat, but not of each other, and how remarkable was that? Very remarkable, according to Lincoln, who met them at the harbor with a ride to their new house.

When they pulled up to the curb, Michael studied Mike instead of the three-story row house, trying to read his first impression. It mattered to him more than it should, probably, what his son thought. Mike's eyes lit up, however, much like Sara's had, and he was out of the car first, running up the walk with Henry clamoring after him. "Mi, Mi! Waaaait!"

Henry had gotten closer to pronouncing Mike's name properly, and probably would have mastered it by now, except that no one corrected him. Mike turned and scooped him up as he entered the house — open with movers coming and going — with him clinging to his back. Michael watched them run up the first flight of stairs, Henry's grip a bit precarious, his arms locked around Mike's neck.

At the second floor, Mike called down, "Can we have this big room?"

"No," Sara and Michael answered simultaneously, reclaiming their entitlement to a master suite.

"There are two other rooms on that floor," Michael told him. "Pick yours, and Henry can have the other." He turned to Sara, and slipped his hand in hers. "Wait until he discovers the third floor rooftop patio. His head is going to explode."

She grinned at him. God, he loved that smile.

* * *

They celebrated Henry's second birthday in the new house. Boxes still lay piled everywhere. "At least he doesn't seem to care," Sara said, sounding sheepish. "This is kind of the lamest birthday ever."

Lincoln and LJ had joined them for dinner, and there was a cake, but they hadn't had the energy to muster much else. "What do you think Henry wanted for his birthday?" Mike asked. "You know, if we'd gotten him anything."

"We got him things," Sara protested. It was just that Henry had 'opened' his gifts before they'd been wrapped. She'd seen no point in going to the extra effort, with so much to do around the house.

"We've really lowered quality standards around here," Mike observed, earning him a hard look from his father.

"Give us a break," Michael said mildly. "There's been a lot going on. Anyway, your brother seems happy enough." Henry pushed a broom around the kitchen, obvious to everything else.

Mike dropped the subject, but worried his lip for a while afterward. It wasn't the lack of the birthday celebration that bothered him, Sara knew. It was the lack of normalcy. And the changes yet to come. School started in just a few days. When Mike had gotten ready for bed that night, she came in and lay down in his bed beside him. "I like how you've put up your soccer posters in the same places as in your old room," she observed.

Mike tucked his head against her shoulder. "I like them always the same way," he agreed. "Is that weird? When I Skyped Dylan, he said that was weird."

Sara ran her hand absently up and down Mike's arm. "I think it's good to know what makes you feel better when you're overwhelmed or a little bit scared. Lots of people don't know themselves well enough to figure that out. And then they might make negative choices to try to make themselves feel better, instead of positive ones like you've done."

Mike turned his face toward her. "Like when your patients make bad choices and you have to go help them, even after work?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "Like that." Someday, she'd need to have a much bigger conversation with him about addiction and what she did at work and why. "And for the record, Dylan would be nervous to move and meet all new people in a new city, too."

Mike stared at the ceiling. "Probably not as nervous as I am," he whispered. He pressed his face back into her shirt. "My stomach hurts, Mom."

This confession had her own stomach lurching in sympathy. _Oh Mike._ In some ways, he was such an easy child to raise. In others… "I wish I could tell you everything will go great," she said, "but we both know I can't promise that." She ran her hand over his head, fingers combing his hair. "But I do believe it. I believe moving here is the best thing for all of us, and I believe your new school will be amazing. Right now, you're just in the hard part."

"Good things have hard parts?" he asked.

She thought of the past eight years, mothering Mike, of the early days, alone, of his father, trying to get back to them… "Good things always have hard parts," she answered.

* * *

Michael took Mike to his first day of school. He could read the conflict on Sara's face when it was decided: she wanted desperately to be there, but couldn't ask for time away from her new job so early on. Mike seemed to take the arrangement in stride, which buoyed Michael; even after three years in his life day in and day out, Mike still worked hard to hide any perceived weakness from him.

"He wants to you to be proud of him, it's as simple as that," Sara surmised, when Michael pointed this out. "He wants to live up to his…I don't know…grandiose concept of you."

Michael had frowned. "I just thought we'd be past that by now," he said. After all, by this time, Michael had seen Mike at his best and at his worst, and certainly, he'd given his son every reason to trust in the concept of unconditional paternal love.

Sara just shook her head. "You loomed very large for a very long time, in his imagination."

Today, en route to the new school, Michael could feel Mike studying the back of his head as he drove, Henry babbling happily beside him, oblivious to Mike's tense mood. "If you have questions, I'll try to answer them," Michael said toward the back seat.

Mike turned his head to stare out the window. "No, I'm fine."

"It's normal to feel anxious," he offered.

"I'm not anxious."

"Oh. Mom thought maybe you were."

At this, Mike's eyes narrowed in betrayal. "I don't like it when you guys talk about me," he said shortly.

Michael decided to attribute this uncharacteristic flare of attitude to nerves. "We talk about you because you're our child, and we love you. That's just how it works."

Mike stared out the window stonily again. He even managed to ignore Henry poking his arm repeatedly, which usually garnered an immediate reaction. After a few minutes, he said in a rush, "I bet all the other kids are smarter than me."

Michael did his best to sound passive. "I don't think so." He glanced in the rear view mirror to see Mike's eyes on him intently. "And one of the cool things about Sable is, you do everything at your own pace. So if some kids in your class are doing different things, that's okay, Mike."

Once parked in the school lot, Michael could visibly see Mike gather himself, taking a bracing breath before squaring his shoulders and donning his backpack. It broke his heart, to think Mike deemed this show of bravery necessary. He knelt down at the side of the car to look him in the eye, and smiled at him. "Give it your best, and that will be enough, Mike," he told him. Mike looked too nervous to smile back, but he sort of shudder-sighed, his small body seeming to shiver in the warm September sunshine.

"The worst part will be walking through the doors, so let's get that worst part over with, hmm?" Mike nodded silently, and the three of them entered Sable. Only Henry appeared happy about it. They checked in at the office, where Michael went through a similar security rigmarole to his first day at Mike's Ithaca school, but then they were ushered through, and the same administrator who'd toured Michael and Sara around last month greeted Mike heartily, promising to show him personally to his classroom. Michael bent down and hugged Mike goodbye, swallowing the sharp wedge of pain that swelled in his throat when Mike gripped him back tightly. "The office has about ten ways to contact me now," he whispered. "Just pick one if you need me."

He patted his head and rose, while Henry did his best to hang onto his brother's backpack strap. "Go wif Mi?" he asked Michael earnestly as his fingers fell away from the strap. He patted his own chest enthusiastically.

"Maybe in a few more years," Michael told him, with a wink at Mike, who, to his credit, tried to smile.

* * *

At home, Michael tried to get a few hours of work in around Henry's nap schedule, bur really needed at least twice as long, uninterrupted, to manage his client list. It was becoming increasingly clear that they'd need to hire someone to help with childcare, if Michael was going to continue to work. He'd put off this inevitability once already, when they'd decided to move, but didn't see how it could be avoided much longer.

By 1 pm, Henry pretty much forced him to call it a day, but Michael didn't mind much: his thoughts continually circled back to Mike, anyway, wondering how his day progressed. He could worry at the park as easily as he could worry at home. They walked across the street to kill an hour on the swings and slide, then finally, it was time. "Let's go get Mike," he told Henry.

"Mi?" Henry's eyes snapped up to Michael's face. "My Mi?"

Michael laughed. "The one and only," he told him, then added, ''Yes, Mi," so he could enjoy the sight of Henry's beaming face.

At the school, Michael trailed after a curious Henry as he explored the grounds until the dismissal bell rang. When Mike emerged from his classroom, his demeanor seemed night and day to this morning, his posture no longer rigid, his eyes alight with excitement. He saw Henry and greeted him cheerfully, followed by an almost casual, "Hey, Dad."

Michael felt himself relax for the first time all day. "It went alright?" he asked, when he couldn't stand not knowing the details any longer.

Mike buckled his seat belt and said, "My class is lots smaller than in New York, and there's lots of projects…you can choose from different ones all day. And most the kids are nice, I think, and two others are new this year, so it's not just me."

"I'm glad," Michael said. He tried to come up with more questions, but didn't need to bother; Mike continued on in a rush of enthusiasm.

"There's art class with real supplies, a kiln and easels and everything, and a real lab, too, with test tubes. Today we had Lab Safety 101, which just means first level safety, on the first day of school, like how to use the bunsen burners and everything, because those have real flames. And they already said we're going on a trip to the Field Museum that lasts all night. It's at the end of the month and I have to bring a whole list of stuff. I have it here, and you have to sign for me to go, okay?" Mike dug into his backpack while Michael tried to absorb all this information. "You'll sign it, right?" he added, anxiety back in his voice for the first time.

Michael knew he could be a little…overprotective…at times, when it came to Mike being out of their sight. He nodded. "But I hope they don't make you sleep under the T-Rex," he joked.

"Or in the mummy room, for obvious reasons," Mike added happily, before carrying on with his run-down of the day. "At lunch, two kids said they'd sit with me, but then I didn't know what to do, because there was only one seat. So we moved to a different table, for all of us."

"That was thoughtful," Michael interjected.

"It was all of our idea," Mike deflected. "Oh. And only one person recognized my name."

Michael's hands stilled on the wheel. They'd talked about this possibility, though only briefly. Michael hadn't wanted to add to Mike's anxiety about school, but he and Sara agreed that he should be prepared for more people to connect their last name to Fox River than in Ithaca.

"Only one?" Michael tried to sound casual about this, while his heart constricted tightly in his chest.

"My math teacher. He didn't say he recognized it, at first, but he looked at me extra long, after reading my name tag, so I said, "'You're thinking of the guy who broke out of prison here a long time ago, with my last name, but that wasn't me.'"

He sounded proud of this explanation, so Michael said cautiously, "Alright."

"The teacher smiled then, and said, 'Of course not,' like that had been silly to think," Mike went on, "but I didn't want to mislead him, so I added, 'That was my dad.'"

Michael tried and failed to stifle a groan. "Jeez, Mike."

"It's okay," Mike insisted. "He just kind of blinked at me, then said he looked forward to meeting you at Back to School Night."

"Well," Michael answered after a beat, "that should prove interesting."

* * *

Two weeks into the new school year, life finally began to resemble a routine. They'd unpacked all the boxes, resigned themselves to interviewing nannies for Henry, and Mike still loved Sable. Sara liked her job, though in Michael's unsolicited opinion, she worked too hard, taking on extra shifts and offering to expand her patient load.

"You don't have to prove your worth to these people," Michael reminded her, when she'd come home late for the third night in a row. "They're lucky to have you, and they know it."

She'd agreed with him wearily, but Michael suspected it was just to shut him up. "I promise to be home for dinner tomorrow," she said, tugging off her shoes.

It wasn't that, though he did miss her in the evenings. She looked too tired; if she didn't start putting herself first, she'd get sick. When, a few nights later, she begged out of dinner, claiming a backlog of patient notes to file, he told her to at least put her feet up while she worked. But after the dishes had been cleared and washed, Michael couldn't find her in the office or their bedroom. He'd conducted a thorough walk-through of the house, top to bottom, and had even glanced into the garage to check for her car, before finding her upstairs, sitting on the rooftop patio. It was chilly enough to consider a fire in the outdoor pit; her feet were tucked under her legs on the wicker couch, and she'd wrapped a woolen blanket around her shoulders.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked in greeting.

Sara shook her head faintly. "It feels kind of good, actually. I was feeling overheated inside."

"If you're hungry, I saved you a plate." When she didn't answer, he added, "Get your work done?"

She looked at him oddly. Almost…nervously? "I have to tell you something," she said softly, in the direction of their three-story view of Oz Park. The fall breeze nearly whisked her words away.

He sat down to hear her better, an answering trill of nerves dancing through his stomach. "What's wrong?"

"Please don't…please…um," she cleared her throat, having gotten nowhere. She looked down at her hands tangled in the edge of the rough blanket. "I'm sorry about dinner," she said instead. "I've been trying, but, the thing is, I can't keep anything down." She glanced up at him.

"Can't why? Are you sick?" If so, it was as he'd thought: she'd worked too hard. But something vaguely familiar about her words caused something frightening to creep to the edge of his mind, and it knelt there, as if ready to spring, just out of range. He shivered. How was that blanket keeping her warm enough?

She looked at him again, like he should understand something she wasn't saying. She shook her head. "I don't think I'm sick." She lowered her voice nearly to a whisper. "I'm late." He stared at her. These words made individual sense, but he couldn't compute them in the order she'd placed them. Looking almost upset now, she said in a rush, "I'm saying I might be pregnant, Michael."

The thing at the edge of his consciousness sprang, flattening him with one vicious swipe of claw and snap of jaw. He staggered backward. "How…could you…be?" he stuttered, only, by the time he got to the end of the sentence, his throat had completely closed in a grotesque rigor mortis of shock, making it sound like _how…could you?_

She noted the backpedal of his feet, and whispered, "I don't know. It doesn't make sense, we've been so careful, but I…"

"Well, what are we going to do?" he cried, one fist pressed hard to his mouth. God, _how_ could this have happened?

Sara stared at him, the blanket even tighter around her chest now. "What do you mean, do?" she asked softly. "If I'm pregnant, we're going to have a baby, is what we're going to do."

 _No, no, no, no, no._ Like hell. "No," he repeated, out-loud, loudly. "You can't." God, was he yelling at her? Judging by the expression on her face, he thought he might be. He took a hard, deep breath, spinning from her to quiet himself down. He counted to five, then turned back. "Okay, let's just…stay calm," he said. Sara stared back at him, calmly. "Have you taken a test?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid to," she admitted quietly. "I just know what it's going to say."

"Maybe you just have a stomach bug," he flung at her, clawing at this hope. "You're around sick people all the time." He'd never wished so hard for a virus in their household.

She shook her head miserably. "I don't think so."

"Why?" he yelled. "Why not?" She was dashing his hope and he wouldn't be able to breathe if she did that.

"I just know this feeling," she tried, even though she usually shut down when he lost control of his emotions like this. "I've been so tired," she added. "And my period…"

"It could still come. How late is it?"

"A few days," she said quietly. "Maybe, almost a week?"

A week was a long time. Too long. He couldn't even look at her; he faced the wall, fighting the impulse to cry. He was frighteningly close to breaking down and weeping. For Sara. For the risk he'd put her in. For this potential…life? He shut that thought right down. He couldn't go there. He'd fix it: "We'll take care of it, alright?" he said, aiming to soothe. He knew he needed to stop yelling. "There's still plenty of time to do something about this."

But when he turned to look at her, Sara's face had gone hard and cold. "Why do you keep talking about _doing_ something?" she spat. "If this is real, it's already done, Michael."

He shook his head. She could not have another baby. Another pregnancy could - probably would - kill her. She _knew_ this.

But she said, "You cannot be suggesting what you're suggesting." Tears spilled; she cried as she talked. "You wouldn't."

He went to her, put his arms around her as he should have done from the start, but she shook him off. "Get away from me," she hissed. "Don't touch me."

He removed his hands and wrapped his arms around his own stomach instead, bending over his misery, trying to contain it.

"You can't find good in this at _all_?" He heard true sorrow in her voice.

"Sara," he moaned. "The hemorrhaging. The coma."

"Mike," she countered pointedly. "Henry."

"They're enough," he wailed. "They have to be." He reached out to her again, trying to touch her knee, but she stood up swiftly.

"Get out," she said on a sob. "Go to Lincoln's. Go anywhere. But get out."

He stared at her, his mouth agape, and she turned her back on him.

"What, right now?" he stammered. "Let me…let me get the boys in bed. At least Henry."

"No, just. Go." She swiped at her face viciously, then pushed past him, through the door and down the hall.

* * *

Sara allowed herself five minutes in the upstairs guest room in which to collect herself, then pushed open the door to head downstairs and herd the kids into baths. Michael loitered, ambushing her immediately with another offer to take care of the kids, offering her respite in their bedroom alone, offering to sleep here in the guest room, whatever she wanted. All she _wanted,_ she repeated in a scathing undertone, was for him to _go._ She could only hope she said it that nicely.

He wavered, lingering like an unwanted presence while she prepared the boys' for bed, but she knew her expression remained hard, and eventually, he must have decided not to risk a scene. He kissed the boys goodnight, dragging his feet from Henry, drowsily cuddled with a sippy cup of milk on the couch, to Mike, bent over a homework assignment. The latter looked up at him in consternation.

"I need to go to Uncle Linc's for something," he mumbled vaguely, laying a hand on his head. "But I'll see you in the morning for school." He cast one last desperate look to Sara, and she forced herself to remain standing upright, arms crossed, instead of crumpling against him in surrender like she wanted to. With slow sigh, he reached for his car keys and said softly, "Don't forget to lock up and set the alarm."

She dragged herself through the rest of the bedtime routine. She'd been exhausted well before their fight on the patio, and now, all she could muster was the most basic of caregiving: brush your teeth. Lights out. No more reading. Because I said so. She wasn't delusional: she'd known the possibility of pregnancy wouldn't go over smoothly with Michael. And had he taken the time to ask, she would have readily admitted that yes, she was scared, too. Really scared, actually. But she'd truly never imagined, never in any of the scenarios she'd played out in her head, that he'd suggest…no, _assume_ …termination. Of their child. Their. _Child._ Every time she thought about it, her stomach clenched in nausea.

She followed the kids straight to bed, turning off the lights and setting the home alarm on autopilot. Punching in the numbers, she tried to shake the feeling that she was locking Michael out; he could enter the code whenever he decided to return, of course. Finally in bed, she curled into a ball under the covers, facing the wall and crying herself to sleep.

* * *

One look at Michael's face, and Lincoln stiffened in the doorway. "What happened?" he said without preamble. Michael just pushed past him into the house to collapse heavily on the couch, where he buried his head in his hands. "Michael?" Linc asked on a more frantic note. "What _happened_?"

He looked up. "Can I crash here tonight?"

Lincoln's eyes narrowed. "Yes. Why?"

Michael knew the stark despair on his face wouldn't ease his brother's concern, but also didn't care. "I messed up," he whispered darkly, into his hands. He could still scarcely believe he was sitting here. That Sara had actually asked him to leave.

Link sank down next to him, his face a mask of disbelief. "You mean you…?" His voice rose. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The blatant judgement in Lincoln's tone had Michael glancing back up sharply. "I didn't mess up _that_ badly," he spat, following up with a hard look at his brother. "Jesus. Who do you think I am?"

Lincoln shrugged desperately, but his expression remained hard. "That's usually why women kick _me_ out."

Michael decided not to grace this with a response. He leaned back into the couch, fists back to his eyes, which were stinging again. "Sara thinks she might be pregnant," he said flatly, his voice suddenly devoid of emotion.

This revelation left Lincoln sputtering. "Shit." He raked a hand across his face, visibly distressed. _Finally, a rational reaction._ "But that would be…"

"Awful," Michael supplied despondently. "You can say it. ."

"Okay," Linc said slowly, "but also…hey, another child, right? _Your_ — "

"Don't put it that way!" Michael bellowed, folding himself even deeper into the couch. "Don't say that."

"But —"

"I love my children," he sobbed. "So _don't put it that way."_

"Why not?" Lincoln asked in bewilderment, and then it clicked. "Oh," he added softly, his tone nearly flatlining as he articulated what he clearly considered a new low. "You told her you didn't want it."

Michael reburied his head. "I told her we could _fix_ it," he countered hotly. "Because if she's pregnant, we have to, Linc! You know that." He sobbed outright. "It doesn't matter what I want. Or what she wants. What _anyone_ wants. Why can't she see that?"

"Okay," Lincoln said, and Michael felt his hand come to rest on his back. "Okay."

"She's so angry, Linc," he whispered. "So… _injured._ I haven't seen her this angry since…since…" Since he'd betrayed her, stealing her infirmary keys with Nika's help. "Not in a long time."

Lincoln just nodded. "I had that conversation once," he said gravely. "With Lisa. When she told me LJ was on the way." Michael swallowed, watching his brother work through this memory. "I gave her a wad of money…just, pushed it into her hand."

"Lincoln…"

"I probably don't have to tell you how shitty I feel, when I remember that now."

"That was different," Michael insisted. "You were a kid. Scared and stupid. And Lisa could have a baby. Sara can't. She can't. She can't."

"Okay," Lincoln said again, more forcefully this time. "I remember Henry's birth, alright?"

Something about this allowance enabled Michael draw his first real breath since finding Sara on the rooftop patio. Linc understood. Linc was on his side. God, were there sides? And did that mean Michael stood on the opposite from Sara? What sort of upside-down reality was this? His chest tightened anew.

Lincoln sighed. "Alright, listen. You can't do anything more about this now. And hey, it could be you're worried about nothing, right? It's too soon to know."

Michael shook his head despondently. "Sara thinks she is, and she's always right about these things."

"Well," Lincoln countered stubbornly, "maybe not this time."

* * *

In the morning, Sara actually felt a little better than she had the past few days, though a headache lingered at the back of her eyes, and her stomach muscles felt achy and sore. From early pregnancy, or from too much crying? It was hard to say. The house sounded quiet, but soon enough, the boys would be up, and they'd need breakfast and Mike would need a packed lunch and his ride to school and Henry would need, well, everything, all day long. Should she call in sick to work? It suddenly occurred to Sara that she had no idea of Michael's plans, and whether she should count on him today, and everything about this fact felt awful: they did everything in partnership. Until now.

But just after she gotten out of the shower, Sara heard the beep of the home security code as it was deactivated and the soft open and close of the front door, followed by all the familiar kitchen sounds: coffee brewing. Microwave binging. Cheerful voices of children as they stumbled down for breakfast. The phrase 'of two minds' never seemed so appropriate: she felt both grateful and angry, that he'd decided to stop honoring her request to stay away. Mike's happy chatter and Henry's 'Dada, Dada, Dada,' had a small portion of the fear and worry clutching her heart loosening, just a bit, however. At very least, she guessed she may not need to call in sick to work today.

She got ready alone, upstairs, taking care to be completely ready to head out the door before she set foot downstairs. She couldn't face a discussion with Michael, even on the most elementary of topics, with the kids present. He knocked on their bedroom door not a minute later, however, derailing her grand plans for a smooth and painless (ish) getaway.

"Sara? Please can I come in?"

He sounded exhausted and sad and scared, but she was also all those things, plus hurt. So hurt. "What part of _leave_ are you having trouble with?" she heard herself say. God, ten seconds ago, she'd felt happy to have him here.

There was a moment of silence. It sounded injured and frustrated. Or maybe she was just those things. "How can I? Mike needs to get to school, and Henry — "

"I can call in sick."

"But…you don't have to. Unless you're not feeling—"

"It's fine. I'll go."

Had she just taken perverse pleasure in threatening to banish him from his children? How had they gotten here? And then Sara allowed herself to remember what he'd said last night, let that flame of anger flare back to life, and decided to embrace her newfound vindictiveness.

"Sara?"

She ignored him. She could feel him hovering there, on the other side of the door, just as he had last night, but she didn't say anything more, and she certainly didn't let him in.

"Please open the door. Let me apologize. Let me see how you're doing."

She took a deep breath. "I'm leaving for work in five minutes. Don't be standing there when I come out."

* * *

At school pick up that afternoon, Mike hopped in the back seat of the car as usual, buckling his seat belt and tossing his backpack onto the floor. "Hey Henry," he said first, since his brother had started his endless litany of 'Mi, Mi, Mi,' since he'd spotted Mike in the line by the curb.

"How was your day?" Michael asked him.

Mike nodded. "Good. I still really like it." He looked at his dad. Really looked, the way Michael suspected no other nine year olds did. "How was _yours_?"

"Fine," Michael supplied.

Mike sighed. "You just need to say sorry, Dad."

Michael eased into traffic, bracing himself. "What's that, bud?"

"I know you're fighting." In the rear view mirror, Mike worried his lip in his painfully familiar way. "Maybe you should just apologize so it stops."

 _I am apologizing,_ Michael wanted to say. He wished he could pour this kid a beer, sit him down, and ask, _what more can I do?_ "Adults fight sometimes, Mike," he said instead. "It will be alright." He paused, then added, "I'll make it right."

At the house, they were flung into their usual busy afternoon, which almost succeeded in keeping Michael's mind off Sara. He needed to make Mike his snack before soccer practice on his new team, which brought Henry pulling himself up to the counter, trying to get in on the action. Michael hefted him up onto his hip. "Sammich sushi, Dada?" Henry requested, trying to twist Michael's face to focus on him, two pudgy hands on his cheeks.

He wanted Michael's personal creation of cheese cubes rolled up in sandwich deli meat. (After worrying the snack could be a choking hazard, Michael had taken to slicing it for Henry like a sushi roll.) He got out the ingredients from the fridge and let Henry 'help', though actually, his small fingers had become much more adept of late, almost nimble. As he watched Henry roll the deli meat, Michael noted he might be ready to try a simple origami animal next. The thought cheered him, somewhat.

"Good job, Henry," he said, as he sliced the roll for him. "Almost all by yourself."

Henry beamed up at him, so happy to add a skill to his list of abilities, it nearly broke Michael's heart. He hugged him, pressing his face into the crook of his neck to breathe him in, though Henry was more interested in eating his roll at this point. He sighed as he set him down with his snack and Mike came bounding back down the stairs, ready for practice.

"Oh! Sandwich sushi," Mike said happily, grabbing a slice of a roll. "Thanks Dad!"

Michael had to actually turn away, emotion welled in him so swiftly. How could he have told Sara _no more_ , after she had given him these perfect children? When another might already be on its way, undoubtedly just as perfect, just as unique? But then his mind shifted mercilessly to Henry's birth again. He would not raise these children alone, he thought bleakly. He couldn't. So what else could they do?

* * *

Sara eyed the boxes of pregnancy tests they kept stocked in the clinic supply room all morning, but when her lunch hour arrived, she couldn't bring herself to slip a few discretely into her purse. Even though the plastic sticks probably cost the clinic a dime a piece, the idea of sneaking into the room to snag them when everyone's back was turned sent a shiver of unwelcome memory down her spine. Instead, she drove to a pharmacy a few miles away, made a selection amid a variety of brands, and returned to work in time to take the tests before her afternoon appointments.

But while she waited to glimpse the results, an emergency patient came in, then her one o'clock needed extra attention, and her three o'clock had relapsed, dammit, sending her over to Chicago General to check in on him. It was five pm and the clinic had all but emptied by the time she could close her office door and study the test results. Each of the three sticks had come to the same conclusion. She stared at them for a long time, trying to decide how she felt about this.

Traffic was uncharacteristically light, which didn't give her a lot of time to get her head on straight before she walked into the house, where she'd need to act like everything was fine in front of the kids. How had this happened? How had they gotten here, tip-toeing around each other, not looking at one another, trying to fool Mike (ha!) into thinking everything was normal? She pulled into the garage almost reluctantly.

Michael must have heard her arrive. He met her in the hallway off the garage entrance, where she couldn't slip past him or ignore him. As weary as she was of fighting, the sight of him reminded her instantly what he'd wanted to do, what his 'solution' to their 'problem' had been, and hurt rose in her again so sharply, like a slap of betrayal, it startled her.

"Sara," he implored, "Please talk to me." He kept his voice low, just out of range of the kids. "Please let me fix this." He waved his hand between her and him, to make very clear what he meant.

But the word 'fix' doubled her anger. She fished the pregnancy test she'd brought home out of her pocket and practically flung it at him; he caught it against his gut like a football, before even knowing what she'd thrust at him. "There's nothing _to_ fix," she said sharply, watching his face as he studied the plastic stick, "so I guess there's nothing to talk about." She pushed past him into the kitchen to greet her boys.

* * *

Negative. Oh God, negative. Michael leaned against the wall in the hallway for a good minute, suddenly feeling boneless, just staring at the pregnancy test. He heard Sara talking to the kids in the kitchen, murmuring something to Henry, asking Mike a question about soccer practice, and he pinched his eyes closed, fighting back tears. Was it relief, coursing through him? Regret? Both? Overlaid with fatigue and stress, from being at such odds with Sara for going on 24 hours? He didn't know. He didn't know.

But he knew he wasn't going to let her continue to avoid him. He walked into the kitchen with enough determination that one look at his face had Sara asking Mike to keep an eye on his brother for a moment. She turned immediately up the stairs, and Michael followed her to their room. Without a word, he closed the door and put his arms around her. He knew she didn't want to be held, every stiff inch of her body told him that, but he kept on holding her, determined to do so until he could change her mind. "I'm sorry," he told her.

"Why?" she said stubbornly. "It's negative."

"And I'm sorry," he said again. Because he was. He was sorry it was negative, he realized with a jolt. "And I'm sorry that I'm also relieved, and I'm sorry it _needs_ to be negative."

She stood rigid against him. "You didn't want this," she argued. "You didn't want this to be a baby." The resentment lacing her voice chilled him, dousing him like ice water.

"I couldn't allow myself to want another baby," he countered slowly, picking his way along the words, "as much as I'd love to see you carrying our child again. Because I _would_ love that, very much." He tried not to allow himself to picture it, and failed. The vision of an expectant-Sara sent a deep and terrifying yearning coursing through him. God he was greedy…he wanted to experience it all over again, another nine months' worth. "But how can you expect me to want a pregnancy more than I want you?" He pulled back slightly to look at her. "I'm sorry I saw it as a choice, Sara. It shouldn't have to be that way. But it is, and I was scared. You scared me."

She didn't say anything for a beat, but Michael thought she seemed less tense, her arms and shoulders less stiff than before. "You're not just relieved?" she finally challenged.

"A big part of me is actually sad," he admitted, because it was important he be honest. "and it kills me to know you'll never believe that."

She let the familiar words wash over her without direct comment. Then, "I do believe that," she whispered. But then her body stiffened again. "But you wanted me to get rid of it," she breathed, as though if she were really quiet, the words would slink away, rendered meaningless.

"I was scared," he repeated. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry." He exhaled deeply. "It was a knee-jerk reaction to protect you. I tend to do that, I suppose." He thought through something, then decided it was true enough to say aloud. "I had already realized my mistake, before you took the test. I would have been terrified constantly for eight more months, but I would have wanted you to keep it."

She looked up at him for the first time, as though testing this declaration. After a long, astute stare, she sighed, finally relaxing against him. "I would have been terrified, too," she admitted softly. "I _was_ terrified."

He hadn't considered this possibility, really. He felt ashamed now, realizing he'd failed to consider Sara's fear, somehow lost in the gravity of his own. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm going to do something permanent about this, alright? I'll make myself an appointment. It's time."

She swallowed. Hesitated, as she always did, when he brought this up. Then said quietly, "Alright."

He tightened his hold on her, and she let him, thank goodness. For a long minute, they both stood without talking, giving this decision its moment of silence, like a shared grief. Eventually, he asked, "Are you still feeling sick?"

She sighed. "I feel a little better. I guess you were right. There was a virus going around at work. Maybe…I don't know. I'm sorry. I usually know."

"Are you still late?"

She nodded. "But I've been overworked, and stressed, with the move. It's probably nothing. But I'll figure it out," she added. She sounded defeated, and sad, and weary, as (he hoped) the last of her anger dissipated.

"Why don't you go take a hot bath. I'll get the kids fed and in bed. Then maybe, we can eat together after. Talk more." He stared her down until she relented.

"That would be nice," she said. She lifted her face to kiss him, and then hesitated, as though unsure of him, which nearly killed him. He bent down to her, tipping her chin to him, meeting her mouth with his firmly.

"Don't doubt me," he whispered. "You can kick me out, but that I couldn't bear."

She half smiled against his lips, just as Mike banged on the door. "Dad? If you're done saying sorry, what should I do about the oven beeping?"

Sara opened her mouth in surprise, eyes widening in disapproval, but Michael just raised both hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, but he misses nothing," he protested. "And apparently, we've both looked like hell all day." To Mike, he called, "Be right there. And mind your own business."

Sara laughed, the sound giving him hope that maybe, even though he rarely deserved it, everything was going to be alright in his world again.


	3. Chapter 3

Within two days of Sara's pregnancy scare, Michael entered the waiting room of a well-recommended urologist, an expedited appointment already secured. By the time he came out, he'd scheduled his vasectomy procedure for early the next week, the first available time slot.

"There's more than one family planning avenue we could explore, you know," Sara told him when he returned home, triumphant. "I could bring you a pamphlet from work if you've forgotten our other options."

He shook his head without even considering her words. "No surgery for you," he said. "We agreed," he reminded her, "No —"

"Risks, I know."

"And no long-term birth control," he added, "when a vasec—my way— is cut and dried." He'd remembered Mike sat at the kitchen table nearby in the nick of time.

"Ha," Mike said, not looking up from his textbook. "Good pun."

Michael looked at him.

"Get it? _Cut?_ Vasectomy?"

"Sara!"

She threw up her hands. "I didn't tell him anything!"

Michael turned to Mike. "How do you know what a vasectomy is?"

He looked between his parents, seeming to take in their discomfort for the first time. "You were talking about it the other day. Loudly." He shrugged. "So I looked it up." He leveled his gaze on Michael. "Seems like a terrible idea."

Sara sighed. "Mike, um, a vasectomy is a procedure that ensures—"

"That people can't have more babies, I know," Mike supplied.

"Oh," she said faintly. She flung a concerned look at Michael, who flung one back at her.

"It's when the vas deferens tubes are cut or blocked, on purpose," Mike explained matter-of-factly.

Sara's eyes widened. "That's a very clinical explanation, yes, Mike."

Mike still only looked at Michael. "But the vas deferens are _here,_ " he said, pointing with emphasis at his own crotch. "Did you know that?"

"Yeah," Michael stuttered. "I'm aware."

"Terrible. Idea," Mike repeated, then looked pensive. "Wait. Does that mean _you_ don't want to have more babies? Only Henry?"

"Well," Michael managed, "Only Henry and _you_. Yes."

He felt like he should say something else, something parental and definitive, but found he could only stare at Mike, waiting for his reaction. "Okay," Mike said after a beat. "That's probably a good plan, because Mom got really hurt last time, I think." He darted a glance Sara's way.

She sort of crumbled against the kitchen counter. "You knew that? That it was, um, difficult?"

Mike had already diverted most of his attention back to his homework. "I knew Dad was freaked out," he said, "even though he said you were fine, _promised_ it. But I didn't believe him all the way. Just… _wanted_ to, you know?"

"Yeah, baby," Sara agreed, exhaling shakily. "I know."

Michael reached for her, tugging her to him to place a kiss on her forehead. She steered him out of the room, pushing him backward into the hallway. "Do you think Mike understands _why_ a vasectomy prevents babies?" she whispered urgently, "Like, _how?_ Or do you think he just grasps the technicality of the procedure?" Michael shrugged, and she added in exasperation, "I think maybe we we've put off a certain _talk_ for as long as we can?"

Oh. That. "I don't know," Michael hedged. Mike was only nine! And yet, he was _Mike_ … "I think there's a solid chance he's already figured it all out. Maybe we can skip it, like you skipped teaching him to read. I mean, he did learn algebra on his own."

She tried to stifle a laugh and failed. "All the more reason for some…guidance?"

"What?" Michael said, as she looked at him expectantly. "Me?"

She looked exasperated. "It _is_ the customary arrangement. Fathers talk to boys."

"But you're a doctor," he concluded, patting her on the shoulder. "So I totally trust your judgement." He moved away, feigning an exit.

"Hey!" she hissed. He turned around. "We do it together?"

He smiled. "Sure."

* * *

Unfortunately for Michael, they didn't get the chance. At bedtime that night, Mike seemed reluctant to release Michael from their goodnight hug, gripping the back of his neck to prevent him from leaving. "Dad?" he asked softly.

Michael sank down onto the bed to face him. "What's up?"

"Are you sure Mom's not mad at you anymore?" he asked carefully.

"I'm sure," Michael told him. "And you don't ever need to worry about that. You know, stuff between your mom and me."

Mike ignored this. "Because the way she wouldn't talk to you? That was like with…Jacob."

He hesitated on the name. Even Mike understood instinctually that the word was loaded. "Is that right?" Michael answered, trying hard to sound only moderately interested. He'd never tried to mine Mike for information about Sara's relationship with Jacob. He wouldn't start now.

"Except, with Jacob, it was like she was just too tired to argue. Like she didn't care enough, to have a fight."

"Did it seem like she didn't care this time?" Michael asked. He knew the answer.

"She cared a lot," Mike whispered.

"That's the difference," Michael pointed out. "Mom and I care. A lot." This, Michael thought, was putting it mildly. "So we'll always work it out."

"Were you fighting about the vasectomy?" Mike asked.

"What we argue about is between us, Mike, not us and you," Michael reminded him gently. "But no. We both agree about the vasectomy." Which also was not Mike's business, but Michael didn't see the harm in this reassurance. When Mike remained silent, Michael added, "It's a very simple procedure. Nothing to be concerned about."

"But I don't understand how _you_ getting a procedure stops Mom from having another baby," Mike said.

Damn. "Well," Michael said, "that has to do with how babies…happen. If, um, my…" He reached for the clinical word Mike had used earlier. "If my vas deferens are blocked, Mom won't have another baby." _Keep it simple,_ he told himself. If he was lucky, this was all the explanation Mike needed.

He wasn't lucky. "But why?"

Damn, _damn._ "Because…you know it takes both a man and a woman to make a baby together, and blocking those tubes stops the man's part of the process." Mike was silent, so Michael added, "Stopping my part is enough to prevent a pregnancy." More silence, kind of heavy with confusion. "Mike, do you want Mom to explain this to you? It's kind of um, medical." God, he was such a coward.

"No, it's okay," Mike said kindly, as though throwing Michael a bone. "But you're not being a very good explainer." He climbed out of bed and went to his bookshelf, selecting the big hardbound text on human anatomy Sara had gotten him a few years ago. He brought it back to the bed. "Okay," he said matter-of-factly, opening the book and flipping the pages to the section on male and female reproductive organs. "Just show me how it works."

The tutorial that followed was without doubt the most challenging of Michael's life, and he'd once tried to teach Sucre the basics of optical physics. Because this was Mike, and Mike was nothing if not thorough when learning something new, there were follow-up questions. There were diagrams. There were moments when Michael absolutely didn't think he could form the words necessary on his tongue. But Mike was in fourth grade. If Michael didn't explain this to his son, someone else would…someone less likely to offer a narrative Michael valued, emphasizing respect and love and responsibility. This realization gave him the ability to forge ahead. He tried his best to explain the facts precisely and pragmatically, the way Mike preferred to learn. He kept everything hypothetical, never personal, but even so, at one point, Mike buried his face in his hands, aghast or embarrassed or both.

"Do you want Mom?" Michael asked him again a bit desperately. He knew _he_ did.

"No," Mike practically wailed, his face red. "Definitely no."

"Okay," Michael assured him. "That's fine. I think we're doing just fine."

Mike looked at him in disbelief. "How is this fine? This is all _awful_ ," he whispered.

Michael tried not to smile. "You won't always feel that way," he said. "But it's not anything to worry about for a long time," he added.

Mike looked contemplative, which seemed to Michael a dangerous thing. "But, if…this…is how it works," he pointed at their most er, comprehensive diagram, "you don't need a vasectomy, Dad. All you have to do is never do this again." He delivered this solution like it should have already occurred to Michael.

And to think he had been so close to calling this talk a success. Why did Mike have to be so…so…analytical? "That's true," he answered slowly. "That would also work, in theory. But it wouldn't work for your mother and me." He tried to let a pointed silence following this statement speak for itself, but Mike wasn't one for subtlety. He just stared at Michael expectantly, like he waited for Michael to get out his phone and cancel his doctor appointment.

"Alright, um, remember how I said sex was not only about babies, but also about love? A way for two adults to show love for one another?" Mike nodded, but Michael knew he had not fully grasped the connection between a technical act and a feeling. Michael really hadn't expected him to. "You know how much I love your mom, and that she loves me." He let that sit there, between them, for a beat, then said slowly, "And I think that's probably all you want to hear about that."

Mike looked at him uncomprehendingly for another moment, then realization dawned and he turned toward the wall as his face reddened again. Michael rested a hand on his back. For both their sakes, he changed the subject, talking quietly while Mike answered in muffled murmurs, his face still averted from his father. Eventually, Michael rose to place the anatomy book back on the shelf and hit the light. "Alright, Mike?" he asked.

"I'm alright, Dad." His voice still sounded a bit tight but it didn't waver. In the dark, Michael could make out a weak smile. "I guess it's my fault for asking."

Michael nodded. "You know I never lie to you."

Mike groaned, chancing a glance at Michael, then looking away again, head under the covers.

"Alright then," Michael smiled. "Goodnight."

He crossed the hall to the master bedroom, feeling utterly drained. Sara was in the bathroom. "You were in there forever," she observed, then glanced at his reflection in the mirror. "Hey, are you okay? You look terrible."

Michael sighed. "That talk you wanted to have? You can cross it off your list."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah." He sat down wearily on the bed. "That kid does not leave a single question unanswered. I think I need to lie down."

She came to sit beside him and he leaned his head heavily into her lap. "You should have come to get me," she said, her hand coming to rest on the crown of his head.

"Trust me, I wanted to."

"But he didn't want…me?" She sounded pained. Mike not wanting Sara in a moment like this was indeed a first.

"Sweetheart," he said softly. "He just couldn't." In fact, Mike may not be able to look his mother in the eye for the next day or so, but Michael didn't see the need to point this out.

"My baby," she mourned. She caressed Michael's temples in slow circles. It felt wonderful. "He can't possibly be old enough to shut me out yet."

He ran his hand over her leg. "You two are so close," he reminded her. "This is just a blip. A moment." Of this he was sure. "He'll be fine," he promised her.

She bent and kissed his head. "I'm sure you said all the right things," she said softly.

He opened his eyes and turned to look up at her, scanning her face for sarcasm or doubt. She seemed completely sincere. The fact that she trusted him to handle such an important conversation with their son touched him. "Thank you," he told her softly. "I gave it my absolute best."

* * *

Michael continued therapy sessions via video chat with Dr. Kate, an arrangement made when he'd refused to find a new psychologist. "I don't have time to break in a new one," he joked with Sara, but honestly, the thought of starting from square one, diving into his past to analyze everything yet again, was too exhausting to contemplate. Kate knew him, and she knew Sara and the boys, and he could jump right in with whatever issue currently consumed him.

This week, it was his undeniable trust issues when it came to leaving his kids in anyone else's care. They needed to hire a nanny for Henry, but Michael was loathe to relinquish any control.

"What worries you the most?" Dr. Kate asked him, her face framed in Michael's laptop screen. He sat in the library on the ground floor of their house, a room he loved, a room he'd secured with motion detection locks on every window, just like he'd done for every other room in the house. A room that hid the state-of-the-art panic room he'd built on the other side of his bookcases.

"Allowing a stranger access to our home or to Henry," he said without hesitation. The idea of handing someone a key to their house, or the code to their alarm system, made him physically ill. Actually placing Henry in someone else's arms? _Unfathomable._

"This is Chicago," he told Kate. "There are still people who remember me here. People who would love to see justice for those affected by the Fox River breakout." He thought of the clinic director who'd taken such pleasure in denying Sara a job. That was nothing, _nothing_ compared to what could happen, if he let his guard down.

"But you moved to Chicago because it represents home to you both," Kate pointed out. "How can it feel like home if you're constantly expecting the worst?"

"How can I _not_?" he challenged. "My concerns are valid," he said stubbornly. It wasn't just decade-old Fox River fallout. His current work made him a target, too. And by extension, his family. Take Mike's overnight field trip to the museum, for instance. He'd let him go, but not without trepidation. He knew security at that museum to be spotty at best. Anyone could have gotten their hands on Mike. Unsavory clients approached him for his engineering services all the time. And why wouldn't they? He was the best there was, at making less secure places secure…or the other way around. How many jobs had Michael turned down, just this month? How many criminals had he refused to work with? He couldn't count them on one hand, and most of them wouldn't be above blackmail, kidnapping, or worse, if they became desperate enough for his services. If Kate, or Sara, or anyone else thought he was going to just open up his home and place his children into the arms of strangers, putting them in danger…

"Michael?" Kate tried fruitlessly to get his attention, waving at him through the screen. "What are you thinking?"

He stared at her stonily. "I'm thinking, no nanny."

* * *

"No nanny?" Sara groaned, glancing up from the patient notes open on her lap. "That's the conclusion you came to with Kate?" She'd have something to say in _her_ next session about that.

He sat down next to her on the couch. It was a chilly, overcast Saturday, and she'd lit a few logs to burn in the brick fireplace. He watched the flames for a moment. "I make the wrong people angry all the time," he said slowly, and she sighed. She knew this, but she'd rather not obsess over it. "Don't tell me about the enemies you make, unless you have to," she said quietly.

"I won't," he said. "I _don't._ But that's the thing: you think I overreact, but that's because you don't know what I know, Sara."

She had to concede this point, frightening as it was. "You're right."

"So when I say something is necessary, for your safety, for Mike and Henry — the window locks you didn't think we needed, the unlisted numbers — I need you to trust me. You need to let me do what I need to do, or I won't be able to live with the fear."

He looked at her so earnestly, with so much bare supplication, she let her files slide to the floor so she could wrap her arms around him. She tugged him to her, until his balance gave way and he yielded, falling onto the couch with her. With the weight of him against her, the heat from the fireplace dancing across her skin, she felt content and cozy and warm. "Thank you," she said into his neck, untangling the throw she'd draped over her legs so it fell over both of them, "for making us safe. For making me _feel_ safe, every day in this house." She pulled back from him to make eye contact. "I don't take that for granted."

He smiled down at her, his body firm on hers, and then he bent his face to her and the heat of his mouth met the reflected heat of the fireplace on her skin. Mike and Henry didn't know fear like she had, because of Michael. They didn't look over their shoulders or double-check locks, because their father did that for them, so that they could live free, as Sara did. She kissed him back, caressing his face, curling her hand around the back of his neck to draw him still closer to her.

Michael shifted his weight again, deepening their kiss, then one knee wedged between hers, a silent entreaty to give him fuller access to her.

"Oh no, no way," she murmured against his lips. "You're still benched by your urologist for another week. You think I don't know that?" But she obliged him anyway, opening her legs to cradle him between her hips. "Plus, the boys are right upstairs." She could hear them in their makeshift fort in the landing closet.

Michael just pulled the blanket up over their heads in answer, cocooning them in a fort of his own making. He deepened his kiss again, his hands roaming under the blanket, across her body.

It took her a while to muster the desire to break away from him. "Honestly, Michael. You were the one so intent on being careful. Safety first, hmm?"

He sighed into the crook of her neck, and rolled reluctantly onto his side. His timing was near perfect, because Mike bounded down the stairs at just that moment, spotted them under the blanket together on the couch, and hesitated momentarily on the step.

That hesitation yanked at Sara's heart. He was growing up too fast, she thought again, always so astute for his age. He knew he'd just stumbled onto a moment that wasn't his, a private moment between his parents. His perception, combined, likely, with Michael's talk, had him blushing.

But then Henry clamored down the stairs behind him. Harboring no similar reservations, he ran past his brother to scramble up onto the couch and wiggle his way between Michael and Sara. When he emerged from under the blanket, his dark brown curls stood nearly on-end with static electricity. He needed a haircut, but Sara was loathe to give him one. Michael's deep chuckle had Mike relaxing, then smiling, and finally, running over to join them. He landed half on top of Henry, on top of Michael, who was still mostly on top of Sara, which put her at the bottom of a very squirmy and testosterone-driven pile.

Laughing, she rolled out from under Michael, trying not to squish Henry in the process. "So many boys," she gasped. "Way too many!"

"You can't escape, Mom," Mike giggled, and then they were all pinning her down, tickling her, even Henry, who danced his fingers clumsily up and down her arm. She felt someone pinch her butt, and whisked her head up to catch Michael's wink. Laughing again, she lay back and gave up as they swarmed her.

* * *

Sara barely made it to Sable in time for Back to School Night. Traffic was heavier than she'd anticipated, but she'd cut it too close, agreeing to a last minute appointment at 5 pm. She knew she should start saying no to the piled on requests at the clinic, but she also knew herself too well: she loved feeling needed, helping the underdog, serving a purpose. Between the hours of 9 am and 5 pm, she got to do all three, just as she had in Ithaca, in Fox River, in India.

She also knew that if she and Michael didn't find a solution to their childcare problem, she'd need to find her purpose at home, instead. Not that she didn't cherish the idea of more time with Henry. Not that she didn't often wish for just that, when she missed her kids, sometimes fiercely, during the day, but…she loved her work. Unfortunately, the bottom line was, Michael's consulting fees, not Sara's salary from the under-funded clinic, paid for their house and Mike's tuition.

Her phone buzzed. Michael, of course: _On your way?_

At Sable, parking was already scarce, and Sara shrugged out of her lab coat as she circled, looking for a spot. Her phone buzzed again just as she eased into a parking space, the sound grating on her already frayed nerves. She only bothered to give it a cursory glance, as she grabbed her bag and trotted toward the school entrance. The text was from Michael again, this one reading only: _?_

She knew she both Michael and Mike felt stressed when she ran late, and true to form, neither of them looked happy with her when she arrived, breathless, at their side in the entry hall. "Mom, you're —"

"I know," she gasped, planting a kiss on Mike's forehead. "I'm sorry."

She looked at Michael. "Where's Henry?"

"LJ offered to come over," he told her, perhaps a bit tersely, if it wasn't her imagination. "Said he would definitely be raiding the fridge, though."

She smiled, and he returned it, though the mirth didn't reach his eyes. He was definitely still irritated. "I'm sorry," she said again, to both of them, as Mike guided them toward his classroom.

"Does that director even care that you have a family to get home to?" Michael said to her, as they navigated the hallway. This wasn't the first time Michael had pretended not to remember her boss' name.

"Dan cares," she told him mildly. "He's sorry, too."

"Sure he is."

This was mumbled under Michael's breath, and Sara frowned at him. "Whatever that's supposed to mean, maybe…to be continued later?" She hoped the look she gave him conveyed her bafflement.

Michael shook his head slightly, as though to clear it, and smiled more genuinely. "No need," he said, taking her hand. "You know I just think you work too hard."

Mike gave them a tour of his classroom, showing them his various projects, his science lab report, and some of his artwork. "You drew this?" Sara asked, admiring a charcoal sketch of the solar system. The detail work was truly impressive. "You've gotten so good at illustrating, Mike."

"And, Mom, this is Mr. Asher," he said, as his teacher approached. Michael had met him on several occasions before or after school, but Sara introduced herself.

"Dr. Scofield, a pleasure," Mr. Asher said. "Mike has proven to be a wonderful addition to the class."

"I'm so glad to hear that," she told him, shaking his hand.

"Mom, Mr. Asher remembers you on the news a lot here, when you lived in Chicago last time," Mike supplied, and the teacher's face flushed. Michael's head snapped from the displays he'd been perusing on the blackboard back to Mr. Asher and Sara.

"What?" he said sharply.

"Uh, no, nothing like that," the teacher rushed to assure them, "only that Mike mentioned—unsolicited—that you and your wife were from here and whether I knew of you." He began to stammer under Michael's gaze. "I told him I remembered you, yes, but that's all." He looked rather desperately at Mike. "Right, Mike?"

"Yeah," Mike said blandly, "I guess so." He seemed unsure why any of this mattered so much, but also hyperaware that for some reason, it most certainly did. "Anyway, Mom, this is my desk, and here, I have my lab kit. I carry this to the science room every day. Want to see that?"

"Uh, yeah, sure baby," Sara managed. Her cheeks felt a bit hot.

He led the way back out of the room, waving at Mr. Asher, who waved weakly back. "Dr. Scofield, Mr. Scofield, please know—"

"It's fine," Sara said swiftly, just to ensure her escape. "Don't give it another thought."

They walked out to the hallway. "You told me some teachers might know you," Mike argued with Michael. "I was just finding out which ones."

"I didn't ask you to conduct a survey," Michael answered with a sigh.

"Oh," Mike answered guilelessly. Michael's expression did the equivalent of a face palm.

Judging by the way the science teacher came to attention at the sight of them, followed by blatant admiration from the Latin teacher, Sara guessed more than one staff member remembered the summer the Fox River Eight led the evening news. It was equally clear that while everyone knew who they were at Sable, they'd all been instructed to act as though they didn't. On this front, most failed miserably.

"Why is it a big deal when they see you?" Mike asked Michael, after they'd left the Latin classroom. "She looked at you like you were a movie star."

"We've told you that your dad broke out of a prison, to help Uncle Lincoln, and that's when he became…I don't know… _known_ I suppose, for that ability," Sara reminded Mike, as they walked back across the parking lot. "That prison was here, in Chicago, so people remember it." It seemed Mike had forgotten that detail, or maybe, she realized with a pang, they'd never made that clear.

"Oh yeah," he said, somewhat distantly. "I guess I knew that."

They'd arrived at Michael's car, and he paused pensively by the driver's side door. "You know what?" he said, "Let's go on a little field trip."

"What?" Sara said.

"You, too. Get in, and we'll swing back around for your car afterward."

"Michael?"

But he'd already gotten in the car, calling LJ to say they'd be later than planned. Mike scrambled into the back seat. Sara walked to the passenger side door reluctantly. Surely, Michael wasn't planning to go where she thought he was planning?

But he was. She knew it the moment he left I-94 for Highway 57.

"Where are we going?" Mike asked ten minutes later, when the city had given way to dark fields.

Sara crossed her arms in front of her and stared out the windshield bleakly. "Fox River," she said. She turned to Michael. "Though it'll be too dark to see it."

He smiled at her a bit incredulously. "It's always lit up like a Christmas tree," he reminded her. "You just didn't see it at night very often."

"We're going to a prison?" Mike asked, excitement immediately in his voice. "Even me?"

"Definitely you," Michael answered. He seemed so sure, now, that this was what they needed to do. Sara, however, felt far less so.

A few minutes later, he turned off the main road to swing left onto Percy, which surprised her. "This isn't the most direct route in," she pointed out, but he just glanced at her askance again, that same look of _trust me, I know this place better than you_ edging into his eyes. It was nearly a over-confident Michael Scofield smirk, never her favorite look. She saw the hulking outline of the outer prison wall, lit, as Michael had promised, by floodlights.

Almost a mile down Percy, they were still headed toward the wall, now definitely on penitentiary property. "We can't go closer," she said. In response, he merely cut the lights.

"Michael!"

He reached across the gearshift to squeeze her knee. "You're okay," he promised.

"We can't be here. If we're caught here…if _we're_ caught here?" She couldn't even fathom that scene.

"We won't be caught here," he answered. "I just saw the security truck pass a moment ago, and the sweep of this perimeter is only every 22 minutes."

"You don't know that! It's been ten years!"

He tried to slide her another cocky look, but she cut that off with a glare. She had started to feel downright panicky, this close to the prison. "I do know," he told her simply, no bravado. "Of course I've re-familiarized myself with Fox River, close as it is to Chicago. We have…" He glanced at his watch. "Nineteen minutes."

Oh. Was that why he'd driven them to this side, instead of the front? But then she knew why, and her breath caught in her throat. The window, _her_ window, shone directly in front of her. Michael stopped the car and they all stared at it. After a moment, he said quietly to her, "You okay?"

She couldn't pull her eyes away from the infirmary, the bars over the window, the narrow courtyard beyond it that abutted the outside wall. This was exactly where…this was how they'd escaped. "I've…never seen it. From this perspective," she whispered.

"Seen what?" Mike asked. She'd almost forgotten he was here.

"Come up here, bud," Michael told him, and Mike climbed over the seat to sit half on Michael's knee. He pointed. "Right there, that window, was the weakest point of this prison," he said. "Still is," he added, almost to himself. "They really don't learn." Sara shot him another look, and he added, to her, "Mike knows I don't condone breaking out of prisons."

Mike nodded, obviously anxious for Michael not to be silenced. "I know."

"On the night I escaped," Michael continued, "eight of us climbed through that window and over an electrical line (gone now) and over the wall. Well," he amended, "ten of us tried, but only eight made it across." He looked at Mike. "One of the men who couldn't make it is one of Henry's name sakes. His name was Charles, and he was a very good man."

Mike studied the window. "I thought all the men in prison were bad," he said. "Except you and Uncle Lincoln."

"Not all were bad," Sara said softly.

"Was your room in there?" Mike asked, pointing at the window. "Like, your cell?"

Michael swept a hand across the massive grounds of Fox River to the other side. My cell was over there."

"Then how did you get here? Aren't you locked up, in prison?"

Michael looked at Sara. She knew he asked permission, and she nodded faintly.

"Well," he said, "it was very complicated, getting from there to here. Too complicated to explain in," he glanced at his watch. "Nine minutes. But on the other side of this window is an infirmary, which is like a doctor's office. And on the far side of that, is a door, that only one person could leave open for me." He looked at Sara. "And she did."

Mike turned to look at Sara too, and she tried to smile weakly. She wasn't sure she was successful. " _Mom_ helped?" he said.

"Yes. This is where we met. Mom was my doctor here. And that night, we were able to go out that window and over this wall because she helped us."

"Not 'us'," she corrected quietly. She certainly hadn't left that door unlocked for T-Bag and Abruzzi and Haywire.

"Me," Michael clarified quickly. "Because Mom helped me." He glanced at her, to make sure he still hadn't overstepped. "And it cost her," he finally said. She felt his eyes on her.

"What did it cost?" Mike asked.

"Nearly everything," Michael answered. "It cost her nearly everything."

* * *

Sara was quiet. So quiet. But in the light cast from the Fox River wall, Michael could see how her eyes welled as she stared at the window. He reached across Mike to grasp her hand, turning over her palm to press his mouth to it. Mike watched this gesture, a familiar one for him to witness. "It was a long time ago," Michael told him, "but people here still remember it, because of what I did, and what Mom did, for me, and what that all meant."

"What _did_ it mean?"

"For me," Michael said, "it meant running, first of all, with Uncle Lincoln, keeping him safe. Then it meant keeping Mom safe, too, and righting a wrong that was much bigger than us. But for people who lived here then, it meant they _felt_ unsafe, because inmates had broken out of their prison, into their community. Does that make sense?"

Mike nodded, and Michael shifted the car in reverse, backing away from the wall with four minutes to spare. He had no interest in cutting it close. "And that's why now, I work every day to make people feel safer, and Mom still works every day to make them healthier. I don't regret breaking out of Fox River," he told him honestly, "because it saved Uncle Lincoln and it led me to Mom. But people died for it, and people suffered for it, and we always remember that."

"No matter if some teachers think it's impressive," Sara added darkly.

It was something to live down and live up to, at the same time, Michael thought. At the intersection of the highway and Percy, he flicked the lights back on, and told Mike to buckle back up in the back seat. They drove in silence for a bit, Michael still holding tightly to Sara's hand, who remained quiet. He thought of the way that door knob had felt under his palm, the miracle of that shift of metal as the inner workings of the simple mechanism had clicked, granting him entry. He thought of the rush of elation and relief and gravity — sudden, wretched gravity —for what that unlocked door meant for Sara. Because he'd felt all that, even then. Long before he'd had time to reflect on her sacrifice in the back of their ill-fated getaway van.

He felt it again now, in spades. Maybe it had been the sight of that window, but more likely, it was Sara next to him, a decade later, that made him feel simultaneously joyous and impossibly heavy.

They dropped Sara back off at her car, and when she pulled into the driveway a few minutes after them, she went directly to check on Henry. Michael thanked LJ, and sent him on his way with a pair of Cubs tickets a grateful client had gifted him. He'd had to insist, but then LJ accepted pretty readily. He spurred Mike to bed — it was late — then when Sara hadn't reappeared downstairs, he went in search of her. She was still in Henry's room, just watching him sleep.

Michael came up behind her, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder when he approached in the dark. She still startled easily. They both did. She turned her head and half-smiled at him, so he wrapped his arms around her from behind and tucked his chin against her shoulder. They both stared at Henry's sleeping form for a moment. He was a beautiful child, breathtakingly so, really…people commented on his looks as often as they commented on his cheery disposition. They couldn't seem to help themselves. Michael knew Henry favored him, he could see it, but to him, this younger son of theirs wore so much more in his countenance than his father's genetics. He displayed an air of innocence, of purity almost, and his angelic disposition and cherubic looks only bolstered this impression. Of the four of them, Henry was the only one untouched by the past, completely unscathed. _That's_ what was beautiful about him, Michael thought.

"I could stare at him forever," Sara whispered, and he kissed her shoulder.

"Thank you," he told her softly, "for tonight."

She turned in his arms, and he thought she had something to say about his Fox River detour, maybe had been waiting to be alone so she could chastise him for putting her in that position, but instead, she lifted both hands to his face and kissed him fervently. He kissed her back, his hands at her jaw, then sliding to press his fingertips against the nape of her neck, until she pulled back for a short gasp of air.

"Sara, at the prison, were you —"

"I don't want to talk," she said in a hushed voice, her whisper making the words sound low and breathy in the quiet room. She gazed intently at him with eyes dark with something carnal, like hunger, and he knew then what she _did_ want, and that he wanted it too, times one hundred. He kissed her again, silently, urgently until he anticipated —if he was doing this right —that they wouldn't be able to remain silent much longer. He started stepping backward out of Henry's room, pulling her with him.

They crossed the dark hallway and were behind their locked bedroom door in under five seconds. Michael had his shirt up and off a moment after that; Sara's joined it on the floor before they hit the bed. It had been awhile, between Michael's vasectomy and subsequent wait period, and Sara's cycle, which had finally normalized. Neither of them needed, or wanted, foreplay. Sara's eyes never lost the intensity he'd seen in Henry's room; she continued to kiss him with desperate zeal. Her hands fell directly to his pants the moment her back hit the mattress; she'd freed him of them before he'd even unclasped her bra, which she helped him with next.

By the time they were both naked, Michael had dropped any pretense of finesse in favor of fierce ardor, unleashing an admittedly crude lust he rarely pursued her with. Tumbling with Sara in such a raw display of need, he relished the sting of her fingernails on his back, answering with the rough scrape of his jaw against the tender skin of her breast. From beginning to end, it was hard and fast and furious, and as Michael lost himself inside her, he wondered if Sara was still thinking about the infirmary. God help him, _he_ was.

"We may need to do a Fox River drive-by regularly," she gasped a moment later, answering his question as they lay spent and sweaty in the tangle of their sheets.

He kissed her again deeply in answer, pressing her back into the mattress with his weight. "I loved you then, in that room," he told her earnestly. "I did. Already."

She rolled him over and kissed him back, her body warm and lithe on his. "But you also _wanted_ me in that room, didn't you?" she whispered to him, her voice silk, her words bellying an almost innocent smile. "At least as much as I wanted you?"

Impossibly, he felt himself begin to grow hard again. She added playfully, "What, more?"

This double entendre finished the job. "Let me show you," he muttered, curling his hand around the crown of her head to pull her face back down to his.


	4. Chapter 4

Sara had gotten better at utilizing the word 'no' at work. Cognizant of Michael juggling the kids and work every day, she said no when her director, Dan, asked her to take on a few additional shifts for their addiction counseling manager. When he asked if she could come in on a Saturday, again...no. So when he approached her as she finished the last of her paperwork late one Friday afternoon, she narrowed her eyes at him, her new favorite word already on the tip of her tongue. He jokingly raised both hands in surrender.

"Before you say anything, I'm not here to beg you to work longer hours, I promise," he said.

She smiled. Dan was a nice guy. Ultimately, he just wanted what was best for the clinic, a quality she respected. "What do you need?"

"Nothing!" he insisted. "No, this is more of an _opportunity_ , really."

Sara laughed. "Is that right?" She reached for her keys and purse. "I wasn't born yesterday, Dan."

"Hear me out," he said cheerfully. He perched on the side of her desk; seeing this, Sara set her bag back down. Evidently, she wasn't leaving quite yet. "I need someone to attend the Hope in Recovery Gala next month."

The fancy fundraising auction? "I'm probably not your best bet for a cocktail party," she hedged.

"Of course you are," Dan disagreed.

"Kaylie likes to get dressed up," she suggested, "and she's well-connected. She would go for you in a heartbeat." Her nurse was young, single, and would enjoy the night out, whereas Sara…

Dan shook his head. "I need someone who can be a spokesperson for the clinic. Explain what we're doing here, with that 'Sara Scofield passion' I'm such a fan of." He gave her a self-depreciating smile. "So you can see why I need Sara Scofield."

She returned the smile, but wasn't feeling it. "I don't know, I've been working late a lot, as you're aware."

"Bring Michael. Make a date out of it."

To a gala with Chicago's elite? She shook her head slowly. "If I bring Michael, the spotlight will no longer be on the clinic. He wouldn't want that."

Dan looked torn for a moment, then agreed. "I suppose you're right. I'll go with you instead. I can RSVP for both of us."

"Wait…you don't need—"

"Don't be silly. I'd never abandon you at an event like that, alone."

"Oh, well…"

"Anyway," he said, clapping his hands together like they'd just settled an important problem, "I'll get out of your hair and let you get home. Thank you, Sara, really. I owe you." He offered a quick wave on his way out the door.

She slowly picked back up her purse. The damned gala? With Dan? Really? How had that just happened?

"I can tell you how it happened," Michael supplied flatly twenty minutes later, as she gave him an account of the conversation in their kitchen. "Premeditatedly."

"What are you talking about?" She was tired, and his tone already had her wary.

The look in his eye reinforced her initial assessment, sending a warning to her brain. Michael was getting angry, but didn't want her to know it. "Do I really need to spell this out to you? He planned to go with you all along."

"That would be ridiculous." Right? She opened the fridge and peered into it, mostly to avoid his gaze.

"That director thinks you're the best thing he's ever seen walk through his door." Sara felt Michael's eyes on the back of her neck as he said this. When she turned, he studied her face carefully. She felt her own irritation flare.

"Well, maybe I am."

"Oh, I know you are," he answered dryly. "That's the problem."

"Michael…" she warned. She loved her job. She wouldn't let him borrow trouble.

"Dan," he said slowly, emphasizing the name darkly, "takes advantage of your strong sense of duty to enjoy your undivided attention."

"I am my own woman, Michael. I make my own decisions about my time and attention."

"And yet you have a date for the gala."

She scrambled for a response to this, and Michael lifted both eyebrows at her when she came up short.

* * *

Sara had called Katie within a week of moving back to Chicago. She hadn't wanted too much time to pass again, allowing things to feel awkward. Katie had seemed genuinely glad to hear from her, and they'd made plans to meet for a work lunch after Sara's first week at the clinic. Katie's pediatrician's office lay only a mile or so away. Still, Sara almost cancelled that first meet-up; she'd still been learning the ropes at work, and didn't know how much she really 'needed' a stressful social situation in the middle of her busy day. But she was glad she didn't: she and Katie seemed to pick up right where they left off, nearly a decade ago, easily conversing about their jobs and current events. Katie caught her up on her family; Sara remembered she had an abundance of siblings, nieces, and nephews. Admittedly, talking about Sara's family was a bit harder, certainly stilted at first, but Katie had gotten married just a few months before, so they talked about her new husband instead, their plans to buy a new house, their honeymoon in Florida.

After that first day, they decided to meet once a week on Tuesdays, at a coffee shop midway between their offices. It was a date Sara always looked forward to. They ate mediocre salads, drank watered-down iced tea, and most of the time, ten years fell away as they joked and caught up. On a Tuesday in early October, Katie asked Sara about work, and deciding to embrace a moment of true honesty, she said, "I think I'm going to have to reduce my hours, and I wish I didn't have to."

"But why?" Katie asked. She knew how much Sara enjoyed the work. "Don't they need you full time?"

Sara felt reluctant to say, and she wasn't even going to go into the Dan issue. It still felt weird to mention Michael to Katie, almost…too intimate? "We need Michael's income, and he can no longer work enough hours from home with Henry, now that's he's two."

"Daycare?" Katie prompted. "Someone at the house?"

Sara sighed. This wouldn't be something to which Katie could relate. "You have to understand," she tried, "for Michael — and me, really — it's extremely hard to imagine leaving Henry in the care of someone we don't know. We've um, experienced things most people haven't, and shouldn't, ever. Michael is extremely protective. And that's not something that's going to change."

Katie looked pensive for a moment. "What if it was someone you did know?" she asked eventually. "Or, someone you knew of, at least?"

Sara studied her. "We'd be listening, I suppose." She stabbed a tomato off her plate and toyed with it on her fork. "Why?"

Katie said, "Remember when I mentioned my niece, at DePaul? Ellie's in the pediatric nursing program, interning at Chicago General. But that ends at the quarter, and she'll need to pick up another 20 hours a week. Frankly, she's looking for paid work, and her speciality is focused on children." When Sara didn't say anything, she added, "She has her CPR and emergency medical certificate, of course, and a minor in early childhood education."

Sara set her fork down and rested her hand on Katie's arm. "I'm sure she's very qualified…over-qualified, probably," she assured her. "I like the idea, I really do. If you think she'd truly be interested, let me talk to Michael."

Ellie, now a grad student pursuing a nursing degree, would have been how old, approximately, at the time of the Fox River breakout? Twelve? Fourteen? How much had she heard from her aunt in those weeks? Learned almost firsthand? It made Sara wince, even knowing Katie wasn't one to gossip. What would Michael think? It was a double-edged sword: Sara knew he would not abide by a stranger watching Henry, but he also hated the thought of welcoming someone who had negative preconceived ideas of him, and by extension, his children. Though she'd firmly deny it, Katie had such preconceptions, naturally, and so would her niece. Right?

"It was just an idea," Katie said now. "Off the cuff."

Sara nodded, trying to shake the doubt that had settled over her. "And it's a good one." She smiled at her friend. "I appreciate it, Katie."

Katie fought a quick smile of her own, and lost. "What?" Sara asked.

"I was just thinking," Katie began, then stopped, her smile now a bit abashed. "If I had told you ten years ago that we'd be sitting here one day, discussing childcare for your kids…I mean _your_ kids, yours and Michael's…"

Sara had to laugh. "I would have told you to take a mental health day."

"But not before blushing and fidgeting and protesting entirely too hard," Katie pointed out boldly. She offered another chagrined smile.

Sara pushed her salad around her plate. "I was really obvious, wasn't I?" she said to her spinach.

Katie shook her head. "No, you weren't, actually. You _were_ human, though." She granted Sara a very straightforward gaze. "I knew something was going on," she said softly. "I just kept telling myself it was innocent flirtation, to keep my nose out, that you had it in hand. Had I thought you were in over your head…well, I have often thought I should have said something to you, should have maybe…I don't know what, really." She looked at Sara a bit helplessly. " _Was_ there something I could have done?"

Sara shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "I think," she said wryly, "I was already too forgone before either of us knew it. It was almost like I was on a train I couldn't get off of, from the start."

Katie leaned back in her chair and shook her head, remembering. "I can take myself back there, to those last months we worked there, so easily. The riots. The stuffy infirmary? Damn, that spring was record-breakingly hot."

Sara knew Katie spoke earnestly, but this made her laugh unexpectedly. She raised both eyebrows at her friend. "You're telling me."

Katie guffawed.

* * *

Sara brought up Katie's idea to Michael as they sat on the rooftop patio that night. They'd told the kids they could roast marshmallows over the outdoor fire pit, which meant 90% of Sara's attention went to preventing Henry from wielding his roasting stick as a sword. Once he'd consumed his allowance of sugar, Michael was able to coax him into his lap to watch the flames from a safe distance, while Mike patiently turned the perfect toasted-brown marshmallow on his stick.

"I'm willing to consider it," Michael told her slowly. "For you," he clarified. She knew he didn't want to be the reason she had to reduce hours at work. "Maybe we can have them all over for dinner…Katie, her husband, and this niece…?"

"Ellie," Sara supplied, trying not to sound surprised. While Michael had always liked Katie, he seemed content to stick to the sidelines of Sara's friendship with her. Inviting them here was kind of a big deal.

They agreed upon the next Sunday, planning an early meal so the boys could take part. Michael made a pot roast, started a fire in the living room fireplace, turned on the Bears game, then disappeared to get dressed. Sara found him in front of the mirror in their spacious bathroom, debating between wearing a tie or leaving the collar of his shirt open.

"You don't need the tie," Sara said gently. The tie was armor, and Michael didn't need armor tonight.

He frowned, still debating. "Why do I feel as though I'm the one being interviewed?" he asked her.

No one was being interviewed, really, but she just said, "You don't owe anyone answers." She reached around from behind him to unbutton his collar, and added firmly, "And no one is asking for any."

"You and Katie are friends. She's always liked you," he started, "but—"

"She's always liked you, too," Sara interjected. "She knew as well as I did you didn't belong in Fox River."

"But we don't know Ellie, or how _she_ feels. And I can handle judgement, God knows, but if she treats Mike and Henry differently because of me, I cannot bear that, Sara."

His voice had taken on a raw edge. She wrapped her arms around his middle. "Well, we'll know whether you're worried about nothing within ten seconds of them arriving. We always do." She could tell instantly when someone carried baggage related to her past, always knew immediately when she or someone in their family was about to be treated differently or badly because of it. Maybe it was a talent of hers, but she suspected this ability just came from long practice.

He nodded. It happened here in Chicago, on occasion, as expected: their names registered a weight they wished they didn't always have to carry. It no longer proved an issue at Sable, at least; after Open House, they'd made extra effort to 'normalize' their presence there. Michael joined the board, assisting with their scholarship program, and Sara volunteered to a committee she really didn't have time for, just like every other overworked parent.

When the doorbell rang, Mike got to the entryway first, excited to have guests. Other than Lincoln or LJ, it was pretty rare.

"Hi, Mike," Katie said when he opened the door, Sara right behind him.

He remembered her from their chance encounter at the airport the year before. "Nice to see you again," he said, just as he'd been taught, issuing them inside, then following up with "Nice to meet you," to Katie's husband Marcus and Ellie, who, to Sara, resembled a younger Katie to a tee.

"Nice to meet you, Mike," she said easily, smiling, then shook Sara's hand. Michael appeared in the entry from the kitchen, Henry on his hip, and Ellie shook his hand easily, too, before greeting Henry with an enthusiastic grin, returning his high five…Henry's latest parlor trick. Sara didn't note any tension, any hesitation, any odd vibe at all. And she'd been looking.

Katie shook Michael's hand with a bit more awkwardness — it simply could not be helped — but her new husband seemed to have no such hangup. He noticed the game on TV and asked after the score, then admitted to being more of a Patriots fan, having grown up in Boston.

Sara caught Michael's eye, and he shot her a quick smile. She had been right: ten seconds was all it took to know they were going to be fine.

* * *

At dinner, Ellie sat herself between Sara and Henry, and while Michael tried not to analyze everything she did, he analyzed everything she did. Henry turned on his usual charms, and she fell for them, just like everyone else. But she also pushed his green beans back toward him when he rejected them, whereas most people would have succumbed to his request for 'Cheeros' instead. And she managed to entertain him with a little game with his napkin while answering Sara's questions about her Chicago General internship.

At the mention of someone or another's name, Sara groaned. "Is he still there? He headed up my ER rotation what…eighteen years ago?" She groaned again, reflecting on that number.

"He's still there, ancient, and apparently just as awful as he always was," Ellie laughed. "But at the end of the month, I'll have all the hours I need for my nursing program."

"Then, just one more year of night classes, and she's done," Katie added brightly. She was proud of her niece, Michael could tell.

"And then what?" Sara asked. "Will you work in a hospital? Private practice?"

"Pediatrics," Ellie answered without hesitation, "but I'm not sure where, yet. While I was an undergrad, Aunt Katie let me shadow her at her job, and I loved it."

"And you'd like to work with kids in the meantime?" Michael asked her. He looked at Henry, and Ellie followed his gaze, smiling at him as he thrust his napkin in her face, trying to play her game.

"I'll be honest," she said, reengaging with him in the game. "I haven't nannied before. So if you're looking for a professional, I'd understand. But I do need paid work to get myself through the last of my schooling, and I can't think of a more pleasant way to earn tuition."

Michael liked this answer. As Sara recruited Mike to help her serve dessert, he surprised himself by asking, "Is there a good time next week you could come by, talk further with Sara and me?"

They agreed on a time, and when Mike returned to the table bearing dessert, conversation shifted to his new soccer club, which was certainly in a more competitive league than they'd been used to in Ithaca. "I think I'll play goalie," Mike calculated, "but I don't know yet. At tryouts, there were four goalies, and Dad watched, and said I was definitely the best, but Mom says he's biased, and his opinion doesn't count. So we don't know."

"It wasn't a subjective competition," Michael interjected. "He saved the most goals, by far."

Katie laughed. "Well, you'll have to tell me when your first game is, so I can find out for myself."

Michael allowed the oddness of such a statement settle around him without comment: Katie, of Fox River, expressing desire to spend her Saturday at his kid's soccer game.

They moved into the living room to linger over coffee by the fire, and when it became clear Henry was fading, Michael asked Mike if he'd read him his bedtime story upstairs. He knew Mike sought to appear like a big kid at this dinner party, not the kid needing a babysitter, and as he'd anticipated, Mike agreed readily. As he herded Henry toward the stairs, Ellie rose, too, offering to help.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Sara said swiftly.

"But I'd like to," she insisted, asking Mike, "What type of stories does Henry like?"

When they'd disappeared upstairs, Katie said, "I promise I told her this wasn't a job interview."

"Do you think she's interested, then?" Sara asked. "Because she seems great." She flung an apologetic look toward Michael; he knew she was realizing she shouldn't have spoken for both of them, but he found he didn't mind. Ellie really was great.

"Definitely," Katie told them. "And since you won't ask…she doesn't recall much from…back then," Katie added. "Ellie was a middle schooler when all that went down," she said, "far more concerned with the upcoming dance and her volleyball tryouts than whether her aunt still had a job."

Sara flinched at this, but recovered. "Well," she smiled, "we'll try not to hold that against her."

* * *

Ellie returned to the house as planned a few afternoons later for a more formal meeting, at the end of which she was officially hired. They drew up a contract and worked out a schedule, and Sara's relief to officially have Ellie onboard was second only to Michael's nerves after she left with a cheerful, 'See you Monday.'

"I'm still not completely sure about this," he muttered, when the door had closed firmly behind their new hire.

Sara resisted the urge to remind him that the final decision had been his. "Please don't worry," she tried, which she amended to, "Just don't stay up too late," when Michael immediately commenced drafting a multi-page document detailing Henry's day-to-day care.

They agreed Ellie would come to the house Monday through Friday from 8 am, when Michael needed to get Mike to school, until 1 pm, when Henry took his nap, allowing for a solid block of uninterrupted work time. On Ellie's first day, Sara went in late to work, mostly so she could intercede if Michael became too detailed with his instructions, or simply refused to physically let go of Henry. It was a good thing she was there.

They all took a full tour of the house, Michael pointing out any and all safety hazards (though he'd taken extreme measures to ensure there were none). Ellie was briefed on the highly sensitive window locks and alarm code, for when she was alone in the house with Henry. Next, he showed her the secret wall panel that hid the high-tech panic room he'd installed in the library when they'd moved in 'just in case', and this was the point at which Sara interceded. He'd scare Ellie to death with all this security talk. Steered out of the room, he proceeded to shadow Ellie while she got Henry a snack, played with his wooden trains with him, and readied him for a trip to the park.

"I think what we're witnessing here could be called reverse separation anxiety," Sara joked to Ellie at one point, to which the younger woman smiled hesitantly, clearly unsure yet whether she could participate in teasing Michael.

When he finally relinquished Henry, he pointed out the neat list of contact numbers he'd printed for Ellie, in the kitchen. Sara assured him she already had both their cell phone numbers programmed into her phone. "Of course, you can always just find Michael downstairs," she reminded Ellie, trying very hard not to roll her eyes. He'd be working out of the library every day.

That first week, Sara half-feared Ellie would quit, given Michael's near-constant presence at her side, but by the second, she promised Sara she had been left to do her job (for the most part) unassisted. Michael insisted this was true; just today, he told Sara, he'd remained in his office the entire morning, without once interfering. She agreed it was a good start.

Henry adored Ellie, who very clearly adored him right back. Despite his resistance to the arrangement, Sara could see a positive change in Michael: the stress of juggling Henry and his work load had lifted, and he was clearly happier, being more productive again. On Ellie's third week, he even accepted an on-site job, working for a software development company in Stockholm; Ellie would work longer hours for the four days he was gone.

The first day went fine: Ellie picked up Mike from school after Henry's nap, and got him to soccer practice. Sara brought home take-out after work, and insisted she stay to eat before heading home to study for her latest RN exam. Ellie was easy to talk to; during dinner, she joked with Mike and talked movies and books, and already, to Sara, she felt more like a member of the family than an employee.

The second day, however, Sara had just entered her exam room for her 10 am appointment when her nurse poked her head back in the door. "Call for you, from your babysitter?" She didn't need to add that it was urgent; if her RN interrupted her with a patient, urgency was implied.

Sara excused herself with an apology, her patient's file still in her hands when she picked up the phone. "Ellie?"

 _"I'm-so-sorry-I-don't-know-how-it-happened,"_ Ellie blurted, and Sara felt her blood run cold.

"What happened?" She heard her voice raise at least an octave.

"Henry somehow got into the panic room," Ellie answered in a rush. "He's locked in, and I can't get to him. I can't open it! I need the code."

"When did this happen?"

"Just now!"

Ellie sounded very close to tears. Sara felt her heart drop further. "I don't have the code," she said bleakly. Michael wouldn't give it to her…something ridiculous about not making her responsible for the information.

"Do you want me to call 911?"

Not if they didn't have to. From the tutorial Michael had given Sara on the panic room when he installed it, she knew a dispatcher would need to call the security company that created the hardware for the room, who would need to override the code after getting authority. It could take hours. Desperately, Sara tried to picture what was in that panic room. Anything Henry could hurt himself with? Anything he could fall off of, choke on, cut himself with? She really had no idea, a fact she berated herself for now. "Let me try to call Michael first," she hedged. "Is Henry upset? Crying?"

"I don't know!" Ellie wailed. And of course she didn't; the damned room was soundproof. "I'm so sorry!" she repeated, crying outright now, but Sara cut her off. Apologies were a waste of time.

"I'm on my way," she told her. "See if you can get the video feed to work," she instructed, remembering there was some such feature, though now that she thought about it, Sara was pretty sure it only worked in one direction: from the inside, out.

"Do you want me to call Mr. Scofield?"

"No, let me." Better for him to freak out on her than on Ellie.

She called him four times from the car on the way home, receiving no answer. It was early evening in Sweden; he was probably on the job, out of cell service range in a tunnel or crawl space or basement of some tech building. She pulled into the driveway just as he rang back. He didn't even greet her: four calls within ten minutes evidently overrode pleasantries.

"What's wrong?"

"Michael, don't overreact, but, we need the panic room code."

" _What?_ Sara, why?"

"Somehow, Henry got in there. Stay calm," she added, thought maybe as much for her own benefit. She wasn't feeling so calm herself, now that she'd articulated the problem aloud.

Ellie met her on the front step, flinging open the door in tears. "I tried his birthdate, and Mike's but I don't know yours," she sobbed.

Sara shook her head, still on the phone. Michael would never use something as obvious as a birthdate. She tried to concentrate, because he'd started spewing numbers at her into the phone. Suddenly, he stopped short. "Sara?"

"Yes, I got it so far, just…I'm just getting here, let me get a pen."

"Sara?" Michael repeated, his voice, if possible, edged with even more anxiety than before.

"Yes, what?"

"You're alright? It's just you and Ellie there? You're alone?"

"What?" In the library, she fought the pointless urge to run straight to the panic room door and try to yank it open. She rooted around in Michael's desk for paper and a pen. "Yes, of course."

But the line had gone dead.

"Shit!"

"What?" Ellie wailed.

"He…hung up on me." She stared at her phone, trying to make sense of this, when it vibrated in her palm with an incoming FaceTime call. Michael. Oh…suddenly she understood. "He needs to make sure we're not asking for the code under duress, that we're not…" She looked at Ellie's stricken face and said, "Never mind."

She accepted the call and Michael's equally tense gaze met her own. "We're really fine," she told him. She gave him a sweep of the library, herself, and Ellie. "The rest of the code?"

He gave it to her as she punched it in, and she kept him on the phone while they opened the steel door, her heart in her chest. The next second, she exhaled, hard. Henry sat on the floor in the center of the room, looking completely unaffected by his incarceration. Sara ran to him, and he looked up at her, happily surprised to see her. He waved to Ellie, just behind Sara, equally cheerily, before frowning at the tears tracking down his caregiver's face.

"He's fine," Sara gasped, giving Michael a view of him. Henry reached to grab the phone as Sara scooped him up. "Fine."

The moment Michael saw Henry safe, his fear turned to anger. "How did he get in there?" he practically bellowed.

Next to her, Ellie started to cry again. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Scofield! There's some kind of activation panel here by your desk. He knew right where it was…I don't know how! And I guess—"

Sara cut her off. "We'll figure it out, and I'll call you later," she told Michael. If he stayed on the phone a moment more, Ellie would be fired. She just knew it.

"Sara—"

"We're going to talk about it, and I'll call you later," she repeated. She gave him one last view of Henry, gamely trying to wiggle himself free of Sara's arms, then firmly hung up on him.

She turned to Ellie, who simply stood there, bawling. "He hates me," she sobbed. "And I don't blame him."

In Sara's arms, Henry's lip started quivering too, watching her cry. "No, no," Sara assured her softly. "If my husband hated you, you wouldn't be here in the first place, I assure you." She set Henry down to hug her, hoping to calm her down, but the gesture only seemed to make Ellie cry harder. "Come on now," she said gently. "You don't want to upset Henry."

This caused Ellie to finally notice her effect on the toddler. "Oh, sorry!" She swiped roughly at her eyes. "Henry, it's all okay."

Sara sank down on the leather couch by the desk, pulling Henry onto her lap. "Henry," she told him sternly, "you do _not_ go in that room. That room is _not_ for Henry." She pointed at the door, which was now hidden behind the bookcases again.

"No, Mama?" he inquired solemnly. "No more?"

"No," she repeated firmly. She didn't know why she bothered; Henry would continue to be incurably curious.

"Can we maybe deactivate it somehow?" Ellie asked, staring at where she knew the room to be. "So he can't open the door?"

Sara rose wearily. "He opened it over here?" Henry slid down from the couch and pointed helpfully. The panel sat at adult waist-height, hidden under the desk, otherwise known as toddler eye-level. "I have no idea how to deactivate the keypad on the panel, but…" She rummaged in a few desk drawers until she found a roll of duct tape, and taped the panel top to bottom. "There. He can improve upon my security measures when he gets back."

Henry studied her duct tape job, so she added one more 'no' for good measure.

Ellie smiled weakly at him. "I'm so sorry," she whispered again.

"Ellie, things happen. We know that. Michael won't admit this to you, but he once lost Mike at a gas station."

"I can't even imagine that," Ellie admitted.

"I assure you, it happened," Sara smiled. "And for weeks, Henry escaped his crib without our knowing."

"Do you think he's going to ask me to leave?" Ellie asked softly.

Sara sighed. "This also may be hard for you to imagine, but my husband doesn't actually make _all_ the rules around here. I promise you're staying, if you want to."

"I do," Ellie breathed. "I really, really do."

* * *

Michael returned home two evenings later, out of his Lyft practically before it stopped completely at the curb, Henry in his arms mere seconds later, Mike wrapped around his waist in greeting. He kissed Sara distractedly, and after untangling himself from the boys, headed directly to the library. First he studied the seal on the panic room door, then went to his desk to survey the panel. He raised his eyebrows at Sara's duct tape job, then studied it from all angles.

"You're not still angry, are you?" He looked up, frowning, to see Sara, shadowing Henry, who had trailed him here. Michael rearranged his face into a smile as she redirected their son back to the kitchen to find Mike.

"Not at Ellie, no," he said on a sigh. "I just…" How could he make the house absolutely safe for the kids, if Henry insisted on messing with his safety measures? "What if he'd gotten into the supplies in there?" Michael demanded. There were emergency rations, tools…God, medications.

"I know," Sara agreed. She shrugged helplessly. "Maybe we don't need—"

"We need it."

"Alright, but…" She trailed off, probably due to the look on his face. He tried again not to scowl. He'd come home so eager to be here, but also so anxious about what had happened. Not to mention jet-lagged and sleep deprived. His bad mood wasn't Sara's fault.

"But what?"

"What about other things in the house that could be a danger to Henry? Or Mike, even. Like the gun safe?" she probed.

"That's secure," Michael shot back at her swiftly.

"You thought the panic room was secure, too," she pointed out.

"And it will be. If I have to stay up all night figuring out the schematics, I will."

He felt Sara hesitate. "Is this a bad time to remind you I have the gala tonight?"

 _Yes._ "Ah, no, of course not. Sorry it slipped my mind." He returned his attention to the duct tape, running his finger along one seam.

"Because if there's too much going on here, and if you're too tired…"

"Don't be silly. Go. Have fun."

"It's not for _fun_ , really."

"Sure. Of course." P _lease stop making me think about that gala._

He felt her pause for another moment, standing there, and then she said, "Alright, I'm going to go get ready, then."

He let her leave without comment, doubling down his attention on the control panel. Five minutes later, however, Henry demanded his attention as he interfered with Mike's homework project, and rather than bring him back into the library to witness Michael taking apart the panel, he felt it wiser to give him his bath.

He was elbow-deep in suds, shirt sleeves soaked as Henry splashed, when Sara popped into the bathroom to say goodnight. From his vantage point on the tiled floor, he had the pleasure of taking in her heels first, followed by long, lean legs finally yielding to the shiny satin of a black cocktail dress. Which, upon raising his eyes further, Michael could see fit about as perfectly as possible.

 _Oh fuuuuuck no._ He ground his teeth together to keep from cursing aloud. _This_ was how she planned to look for her evening with Dan? Michael counted to five, rinsed Henry's hair, and reminded himself that her boss's motives or feelings, no matter how inappropriate, were in no way _Sara's_ fault or problem. But they'd most certainly be a problem for Dan, if he acted on them.

He looked up at his wife, one hand shielding her dress from the onslaught of water Henry released in a wave machine of his own making. "You look amazing," he told her sincerely.

She flashed him a smile that had him rising to kiss her the way he should have kissed her when he arrived home today, had he not been so distracted by the panic room settings. Ignoring Henry looking on with interest, he pressed his mouth into the crook of her neck next, breathing in her perfume. "Promise me you'll get out of there the second the dessert dishes are cleared," he whispered into her ear.

She laughed. "So I can come home to you either working on the panic room or just passed out asleep?"

It was true that he was dead on his feet, but: "Don't worry, I'll be waiting up." He kissed her again for good measure, before she bent to chance a kiss on the top of Henry's wet head.

* * *

Michael was imagining things, Sara told herself, as she drove to the gala. Granted, petty jealousy wasn't his style, but this thing with Dan had to be some sort of exception to the rule. Because the alternative made her seething mad: she loved her job, and if her boss decided to be an asshole, she'd be the one who stood to lose. The unfairness of this kept her stubbornly clinging to the hope that Michael was wrong. Plus, she'd _nailed_ her job interview with Dan. If it turned out she'd gotten the position just because he wanted in her pants… _god damn it_ that pissed her off.

And then she arrived and stood in the atrium of the ballroom of the Grand Hyatt trying to get her bearings, caught Dan's eye across the hall, and _shit._ She knew two things immediately, just by the look on his face: he didn't hire her just to get in her pants, but also, Michael wasn't wrong. Because the look on Dan's face wasn't crude or predatory, but rather, abjectly _adoring_ in a way that had her heart sinking faster than if he'd slipped a key card into her hand and invited her upstairs. This issue that she'd been trying to ignore and deny was now officially a problem.

"Hi Dan," she said warily. "Which table are we?"

He didn't move for a moment, just…taking her in, she guessed. "You sure clean up nicely," he eventually blurted. When she had no immediate reaction to this, he flushed, coming to the correct conclusion that he'd vaguely insulted her. "Not that I'm surprised, of course."

"Our table?" This was going to be a very long night.

"Right. Over here." He flushed again. "I just meant, no lab coat and slacks, right?"

"I figured the dress code required a little more effort," she managed. _Meaning, I make no effort for you at work, Dan._

Luckily, their seat mates proved decent buffers, and Sara spent most of her emotional energy worrying about the speech she planned to give on the clinic's work with Chicago's underserved. When Dan frequented the open bar, which was probably more often than prudent, he brought her back a club soda with lime, which was something, she supposed; he wasn't interested in knocking her off the wagon, which was more than she could say for some men she'd met through the years. She gave her spiel praising the work they did at the clinic after the main course, and true to her word, once the dessert dishes were cleared, she made her exit.

Dan laid a hand on her arm as she said her goodbyes. "Don't feel you need to rush out," he said hopefully, and his eyes were earnest, even if his speech had begun to slur. She stared at his hand until he removed it, flushing even more than he had earlier.

"My husband returned home from Stockholm today. I promised to make it an early evening."

Referencing Michael seemed to sober Dan up a bit. Maybe, Sara thought wryly, if he wouldn't respect the sanctity of her marriage for her sake, he'd do so out of fear of her husband. It was a depressing thought.

"Thank you for the invite," she told him, already digging in her clutch for her valet ticket. The sight of it guilted her into asking, "Do you have a ride home, Dan?"

He looked from her face to the ticket in her hand, seemed to debate something internally, then said slowly, "I'll call a car service."

 _Thank goodness._ "I think that's a good idea," she told him firmly. "I look forward to hearing the fundraising totals tomorrow at work."

He nodded, looking entirely too let down, as she departed.

* * *

Michael heard Sara's car in the drive, then the front door open and close. It wasn't yet 11 pm, but he could barely keep his eyes open. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd been dosing for a while now. The electronic beep of the alarm code echoed softly — Sara resetting it after entering — and a minute later, she was in the doorway, pulling off her shoes. "Hey."

"Hey," he told her. "Have a good time?"

"You were right," she said flatly, which had him sitting up quickly in bed.

"What did he do?"

"Nothing," she sighed. "But you were right," she repeated. She sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching awkwardly for the zipper of her dress. He stopped her hand, sliding the zipper down for her. He let his fingers trail down her skin. "And it sucks, because I love my job at the clinic."

Michael frowned. "So keep it."

She turned and looked at him, reaching up to unclasp the barrette at the back of her head. Her hair spilled down over her neck and shoulders. "He definitely has some sort of thing for me. You're not wrong."

She sounded so forlorn about this, he reached for her, guiding her down beside him on the bed. Her dress half off, it billowed around her in a pile of satin. "That's his problem," he told her, echoing his thoughts from earlier in the evening. "Not yours."

She looked at him. "Really?"

"If he bothers you, if he makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, you'll report him, of course." he said. "If not…if you want to work there, _I_ want you to work there."

"Really?" she said again. Her eyes darkened and she reached to kiss him.

He smiled at her. "Is that the sexiest thing I could say to you right now?"

She laughed. "Yes, actually." She rolled toward him, her lips still upturned into a smile as they made contact with his. He let himself pull the straps of her dress off her shoulders, sliding the fabric all the way down to her waist. He buried his face in the cleavage afforded by her bra.

"I've wanted to rid you of this dress since Henry's bath," he told her.

She wiggled out of it. "Let's lose it then," she whispered.

He rolled her away from him so her back was to him, unclasping her bra and tossing both it and the dress to the floor. He slid his fingers under the hem of her underwear next, sliding them off to run his hands over the bare curves of her pale skin. Some of his weariness fell away as he drew her against him, spooning her, his erection already hard against her ass. He felt her shudder as she ground back into him.

He half wanted to take her like this, her body nestled into his, his face in her hair at the back of her neck, his arms around her waist, holding her tightly to him, but he knew this wasn't a position Sara ever felt entirely comfortable in, with her back turned. Though she was definitely aroused as he kissed her neck, Michael could also detect a fine hum of tension through her shoulders. "This okay?" he asked into her ear, his hands circling her to stroke her breasts.

He felt her hesitate, then, "I think so."

'Think so' didn't work for Michael. He turned her by the shoulder to face him, using the opportunity to tug off his boxer shorts. He tossed them to the floor with her dress and, laying side by side, ran his hand down her leg, lifting it up and over his hip.

"Sorry," she breathed, and he frowned at her, shaking his head before bringing her snug against him again. She ducked her head to kiss his chest, but he tipped her chin back up. "Look at me," he said softly, because he loved watching her face as he entered her.

It didn't disappoint. He kissed her open lips, thrusting almost slowly, stroking against her with careful accuracy until she closed her eyes, gripping his neck to draw him closer to her. It wasn't long before he needed more, his usual finesse falling to the wayside in his jet lagged state. He pressed her onto her back in one swift shift of movement, and she drew her knees up in answer, opening herself to him more deeply. With a groan, he filled her faster and harder until she whimpered in the way that drove him to the edge, and dammit, he nearly couldn't wait for her, he was so tired and defenseless and wanted her so badly. He buried himself in her with one last, hard thrust, and luckily, it was enough to bring her alongside him, because he was gone before he even felt the pulse of her orgasm around him, gripping her hips tightly as his release spilled into her.

He let himself collapse against her, his face back against her chest. "A little tired?" she smiled.

"Mmmhmm." He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts float toward unconsciousness.

"Michael? Um…" He felt her try to dislodge his dead weight, and groaned again. He wanted to sleep just like this, inside her, on top of her, using her as a pillow… "Michael!"

"Sorry." He disentangled them, allowing her to slide out from under him to turn off the hall lights and use the bathroom. When she returned, he tugged her back to him, pulling her half on top of him, threading his legs through hers. The last thing his conscious mind registered was her chuckle, then her cheek coming to rest on his chest.

"Goodnight," he mumbled.


	5. Chapter 5

After dinner one night in early November, Michael called Sara into the library, then, perhaps on impulse, requested Mike's presence as well.

"I've finally figured out how to bypass the control panel schematics for the panic room, so Henry can't open it," he told them, "and I want you —both of you— to understand the work-around."

"What for?" Mike asked.

"Yes, is it really necessary Mike know this?" Sara echoed.

"In case I'm not here to deal with it for some reason, yes," Michael said, eyes on his computer laptop, open to the digital control panel.

"But I mean, what's a panic room for?" Mike pressed. "Other than being super cool," he added unnecessarily.

"It's a place to go if you ever need to hide," Michael answered, while Sara frowned at him.

"Though probably never needed," she added pointedly, looking to Michael for support on this.

He finally caught her gaze. "Of course," he echoed distractedly.

"Is this because of your work?" Mike asked, unwilling to be deterred by Sara.

Michael finally stopped messing with his computer. He looked up at their son. "Mike, it's because I know things can go wrong, and I know there are people in the world who I never want to have access to you. Or your mom. Or Henry. That's all."

"Then shouldn't everyone have a panic room?"

"Yes," Michael answered simply. "They just don't know it."

"Because they're _lucky_ enough not to know it," Sara added in an undertone.

"You don't want the panic room, Mom?" Mike asked.

She sighed. "I don't want to _need_ the panic room," she answered honestly.

"We've never needed one before," Mike pointed out.

Sara bit her lip. "Well, we kind of did, didn't we?" she countered. She felt reluctant to go here but… "Remember when Jacob took us to the lake house? I wish we'd had a panic room to go in instead."

Reference to Jacob stopped Mike's stream of questions, as it usually did. He nodded solemnly, and directed his attention on Michael. She hadn't meant for her words to have this effect, per se, but wasn't sorry, either. She just wanted this panic room tutorial to start, so she could get it over with.

"What do I need to do, Dad?"

Michael glanced up, and smiled. "So if you ever think you need to go in the room, you're going to ask Mom first, if she's here, and get Henry, if she's not, and log in over here." He proceeded to show them both how to access the control panel remotely, bypassing the physical panel he'd disabled for Henry's safety.

"What do I do once I'm in there?" Mike asked.

"You stay there, until I come for you," Michael answered definitively. Sara had to concede that such a certain response was a comfort. For good measure, he showed them the emergency communication system inside the panic room, the food and water, the first aid supplies. Sara didn't want to imagine any scenario in which any of it would be needed. He turned on the video feed, to show Mike what his view of the library would be like, from inside.

"Cool." He looked at his dad. "Can I let people in from here?"

Michael showed him how to open the door from the inside, a skill he might as well teach Henry, too, Sara thought darkly, but added, "But you won't let anyone in, remember?"

"What if it's Uncle Lincoln?"

"Not even Uncle Lincoln. If they can't open the door with the access panel code, they don't get to you." He paused for emphasis. "And I'm the only one with the panel code." Michael looked at him too intently, in Sara's opinion. "Do you understand, Mike?"

Mike was getting better at weathering his father's gaze, when it was turned on him. He and Michael could stare each other down quite impressively these days. Sara wasn't so sure this was a good thing. "Yes," he answered quietly now, however, deferring to Michael. "I understand."

* * *

The day the results of the soccer team tryouts were to be announced, Mike refreshed the website on his iPad over and over until finally, Michael couldn't take it anymore. "Just…put that thing down, Mike," he begged him. "It hardly does you any good to stare at it. Why don't you go outside and shoot on your goal for a while?"

Of course, when Mike reluctantly abandoned the iPad to find his soccer ball, Michael had to fight the urge to snatch it up. _When_ would they post the team list? It should have been up hours before. He called Sucre to distract himself, and to ask after Maricruz, who'd been sick, but ended up rehashing the whole saga for him, too. "If I have to go through the weekend without knowing…" he bemoaned, then corrected himself. "I mean, if Mike has to go through the weekend…"

Sucre proved a willing and enthusiastic listener. "It's the same with Marika, Papi," he commiserated. "We have to wait until the last minute to find out if she'll get a solo at each concert. I mean, what _is_ this hell?"

"I don't even care if he makes a team," Michael reasoned, "but he cares, which makes me care even more than he does. It's madness."

Talking about Maricruz, who'd had a bout of flu, distracted them both for a few minutes. She'd be fine, but Sucre had had to take several weeks off work to help out at home, and now felt uncertain whether he'd have a position when he returned. "There's zero job security at the docks, Papi," he told Michael. "Zero."

Michael went quiet for a moment, turning over something Sara had suggested to him in his head. He really needed an assistant, especially during the on-site work of his projects. Someone he could trust inexplicably, someone who would follow orders without question and be completely loyal to him, not to the individuals and companies hiring them. Michael couldn't think of anyone who fit this bill better than Sucre, and now that Michael had increased his client load again, he felt confident he could hire on a full-time employee.

"What would Maricruz think of you traveling for work?" Michael asked him carefully. "Internationally, I mean. At least a few trips per month?"

Sucre was silent for a beat. "What? Do you know of something? Who's hiring?"

Michael took the plunge. "Me, maybe?"

More silence. Then: "Are you serious?"

"I'm seriously asking if you'd be willing to travel, yes."

"Then yes, Papi!" Sucre practically yelled. "My answer is yes!"

Michael grinned into his phone. A person would think he'd just proposed, Sucre answered with such passion. Good grief. He described what he needed in an employee…ground work, site prep, that sort of thing, but felt fairly sure Sucre wasn't fully listening.

"Sure, sure," he kept answering. "Yes, Papi, whatever you need."

"But we haven't talked salary," Michael pointed out.

Sucre blew this off. "You'll be fair."

"Maybe you want to think about it," Michael told him. "Talk to Maricruz."

"Is the work illegal?" Sucre asked.

"Of course not."

"Then Maricruz will be fine with it." He thought of something. "Is it dangerous?"

Michael hesitated. "It hasn't been," he told him honestly, "but it has the potential to be dangerous. Meaning, dangerous people approach me for work, and I turn them down."

Sucre blew this off, too. "Dangerous people," he echoed sarcastically. "Ha! We'll just kick their dangerous asses like we always do." Michael could sense his grin on the other end of their conversation. "Unless your family's made you soft, Scofield."

Michael smiled. "My family has only made me sharper, I assure you," he promised, and he spoke the truth. Michael truly pitied anyone who'd dare cross them or threaten them. "Vengeance and all that," he concluded. Which reminded him: "Hold on, I need to check again for the soccer roster listing."

"Sure, sure," Sucre said, then…"Well?" after waiting for Michael to refresh the browser.

But Michael ignored him, because the listing was up: he scanned the list of names intently, his heart in his throat, then felt adrenaline flood his veins in a burst of giddy joy.

"Yes!" he yelled, loudly enough to bring Mike running hopefully back into the house. He grinned at him. On the phone, he heard Sucre ask, "Does this mean vengeance does not need to be yours?"

"Not today," Michael laughed.

* * *

Mike's new soccer team was certainly a more intense bunch, taking the game far more seriously than his teammates in Ithaca had, but Mike never shied away from 'intense'. He'd been born intense, in Sara's opinion. Practices were longer and more frequent, concerning her a little, but as long as Mike continued to express enthusiasm each time he took the pitch, she supposed it couldn't hurt.

He quickly earned the position of starting goalkeeper, and the weather held throughout November, granting them clear, cool days to watch from the sidelines at various fields across the greater Chicagoland region. Katie and Marcus came to one game early in the season, which had been a lot of fun, and Ellie attended every one that didn't conflict with her class schedule. Sara sincerely hoped she wasn't still trying to make up for the panic room incident, but when she reminded Ellie that she really wasn't obliged to be there, chasing Henry around on the grass so Sara and Michael could focus on the game, she always responded, "But I want to be here!"

Before long, Sara stopped arguing. And when, during a game the weekend before Thanksgiving, a particular play took all her attention off of Henry in the second half, she was especially grateful for Ellie's presence. It happened fast: in a one-on-one challenge to the goal, Mike ran out to dive on the ball just inside the box, the opposing striker pinwheeling over his head, unable to stop his momentum. It was a great save, but Mike remained on the ground longer than Sara would have liked.

"He's alright," she said automatically, though she had no evidence to this fact, because Michael had tensed at her side.

And a moment later, Mike proved her right, standing up and brushing the dirt and grass off his uniform. He gave the referee a gloved thumbs up. Next to her, Sara heard Michael exhale in relief.

The ref rolled him the ball for the goal kick, but as he did so, he paused, looked at Mike more carefully, and trotted over to him.

"What's he telling him?" Michael asked the sideline at large. Several other parents offered suggestions: checking he hadn't hit his head perhaps?

Then Mike glanced down at his jersey at the ref's prompting, and his hand went up to his face. Sara still couldn't tell what was happening, but the ref called to Mike's coach for a sub and Mike jogged off the field, pulling his goalie jersey up and over his head as he ran. A chorus of frustration rang out among the parents; no one wanted to see their goalkeeper benched.

"Did he get hurt?" someone asked.

Sara just shook her head. "I don't think so," she answered slowly, but she tracked Mike as he crossed to his bench, and his coach looked at him as intently as the ref had. He indicated for Mike to tip his head up, and handed him something —tissue? — and then Sara knew exactly what had happened and she felt her entire body run cold, as though the temperature had suddenly dropped twenty degrees. She gripped Michael's arm.

"His nose is bleeding," she said flatly.

But when she looked sideways at Michael, she could tell he'd already drawn this conclusion. His face was white, ghosted fear etched in every fine line around his eyes and mouth.

"Oh, good," someone said. "Just a nosebleed."

 _Just a nosebleed._ "It's nothing," Sara heard herself agree. "People's noses bleed all the time. The air is really dry. It's the time of year."

"He'll be back in as soon as it stops," someone else added, slapping Michael on the back.

Michael nodded stiffly. "I want to go over there," he told Sara under his breath.

She shook her head. "You'll just alarm him."

He looked at her plaintively.

 _"It's nothing,"_ she repeated fiercely.

She expected an argument, at least a protest from Michael, but instead, she just felt him grip her hand hard.

Mike donned a back-up jersey and reentered the game within a few minutes; the kid who'd replaced him in the goal seemed relieved to return to his usual place on the field. The rest of the game proved uneventful, and they won 3-1. When Mike walked across the field to them afterward, he spun his stained jersey idly in one hand.

"Coach says we have to wash this right away," he said in greeting, "'cause I can't be on the field with blood on me. Did you see that?"

"Yeah, we saw," Sara said tightly. She took the jersey and studied it. His nose must have bled pretty hard. "You okay?" she managed.

"Sure." He turned to Michael, who just placed a hand silently on his head. Mike peered up at him. "Did you see my nose gushing, Dad?"

"Hey, now," Sara said swiftly, before Michael had to answer. "Good game, baby." She distracted Mike with a kiss to his sweaty forehead before he could shy away.

"Ew, Mom. I'm all gross."

Ellie, who'd missed the whole incident trying to keep Henry from climbing trees, approached, trailed by her charge, who begged a piggy-back ride from Mike to the car. She congratulated Mike on his game, promised Henry she'd see him first thing Monday, and departed with a wave. By the time they'd all reached their car, Michael still hadn't said a word.

"And then that kid flew right over me," Mike recounted, happily giving a play-by-play as Sara loaded Henry in his car seat. "He didn't kick me or anything…my nose just started bleeding for no reason." He announced this like it was a good thing, climbing into the back seat next to his brother. "When I stood up, boom…blood."

Michael's hand stilled on the gear shift, and he finally turned to Mike. "Did your head hurt, right before that? Right here, behind your eyes?" He pointed.

Mike furrowed his brow. "I don't think so."

"You'd know," Michael assured him. "You'd notice." This fact seemed to buoy him a bit. "Have you had nosebleeds before?"

"I guess so, sometimes," Mike said, reaching for his seat belt.

"You guess so, or you know so?"

Mike's hand stilled on the belt buckle at his father's tone. "I guess…not?"

Sara gave Michael a look. "Anyway," she said firmly, "Enough bloody nose talk. How about that goal right at the end? Was that Lucas?" She'd yet to learn most of the players' names.

Mike picked up this new conversation thread and ran with it, describing all the players on his team and their names and positions and who had done what today. For the remainder of the ride home, all she and Michael had to do was sit back and listen.

At home, Sara set the jersey to soak and went in search of Michael, who'd disappeared immediately. She found him upstairs, pacing their bedroom. He looked up only briefly when she entered. "I was 13 when I started having nosebleeds," he reminded her. "Mike's only nine!"

"Exactly," she said, because someone had to stay calm, and she guessed it would have to be her. Michael was getting a dose of what she'd gone through so many years ago, watching his nose bleeds, being powerless to stop them. "The fact that he's so young means this was probably just a harmless, everyday nose bleed, nothing to worry about." He looked at her with that same panic-stricken face he'd worn at the game, and she knew her 'calm and collected' act wasn't fooling him. "I'm going to get him an appointment with his pediatrician first thing Monday morning," she said. "I already texted Katie to see how to expedite it."

"He needs to see a neurologist," Michael argued, "not his pediatrician."

"But he'll need a referral," Sara pointed out. She needed him to stay with her, follow her logic. "We have to take it step-by-step." She paused. "It will help to have your medical records on-hand," she added. Where were they? What would they even say?

Michael kept pacing. "I think my Ithaca doctor said something had been forwarded to him from the CIA," he said. "We can start there, I suppose. I don't know the records say, really," he added, echoing her concerns. "Who knows what the Company called my surgery way back when, and the others I had were off the books, too."

Sara sighed. "Then I guess we'll just be the crazy parents demanding an MRI for a nose bleed for no rational reason," she concluded.

He paused and looked at her almost gratefully. "Is that what you think he needs? A brain scan?"

"At the risk of sounding insane…yes."

"Good," he said, tugging her to him, and she melted at the relief in his voice. It was palpable. "As long as you're on my side, I know it will happen."

* * *

And she was, of course, on his side. Michael wasn't surprised, really: once Sara felt a medical course of action to be necessary, she became a fierce advocate. Michael remembered this particular trait well, from her dogged pursuit of his surgery in LA. She got her hands on Michael's sparse medical records, forwarded them to Mike's pediatrician before the weekend was over, and took Monday off work, to be on-hand at his 9 am appointment.

To Mike, she only said, "We want to get you checked out after that nose bleed, because you dad got nose bleeds as a kid, and they were kind of a problem."

Michael wondered if they shouldn't put a finer point on it, since Mike saw exactly zero logic in this. "But nose bleeds aren't contagious or hereditary," he argued, to which Sara simply said,

"You're right. Nose bleeds are just symptoms."

"Why do I have to miss school for this?" he pressed. "I feel fine."

"I think you're the only kid I've ever known to complain about skipping school," Sara observed cheerfully as she guided him into the car, skillfully avoiding the question.

Mike's doctor had already reviewed Michael's records (he suspected he had Katie to thank for this) and took their concerns seriously, which certainly saved time: Sara was not going to be patronized, and it was nice to skip the step where she had to dig her heels in. When he told them Comer Children's Hospital had an MRI cancellation for this very afternoon, she stood up and grabbed her purse before he'd even finished his sentence.

"What time?"

"Dr. Scofield, understand that I do believe this all to be over-precaution," he noted, "and though I'll call the testing hereditary, I cannot guarantee that your insurance will foot the bill."

"It doesn't matter," Michael answered. "We're doing the MRI either way."

The doctor scribbled the name of the referred neurologist onto the back of his card as Mike looked from his parents to the doctor, who'd just examined him. "What, another medical place?"

"Just one more," Michael told him, promising him lunch out first, his choice.

Of all the restaurants in the vicinity, Mike chose an upscale dim sum place. "We have a weird kid, you know that, right?" Michael muttered to Sara as Mike bounded through the door ahead of them, excited for his favorite shrimp dumplings. He held the door for her as she lifted her eyebrows in response. Ahead of them, he saw Mike still rushing, anxious to get a table. It was on the tip of Michael's tongue to call to him to slow down and watch where he was going, when sure enough, Mike ran straight into a man picking up his to-go order at the counter.

"Sorry!" Mike said automatically, skidding to a halt. Michael watched as the older man turned in surprise, then felt the blood drain from his face, because Mike had just crashed directly into Henry Pope. As Michael stood mutely, Pope half-frowned, half-smiled at his son, patting Mike on the head distractedly before exiting the door opposite them rather hastily, staring down at his receipt. Mike turned back to his parents, another apology on his lips, probably waiting for a reprimand, but Michael's mouth had gone dry.

"Wait. Are you sure?" Sara hissed, when he finally found his voice. She craned her neck to peer out onto the street, but Pope was already long gone.

"I'm sure."

She eyed him carefully. He probably looked as shaken as he felt. Even the waitress looked concerned. "Pardon?" he said, as she tried to get his attention for the second time. "Yes, anywhere is fine."

They sat down, and Sara tried again. "Do you really think —"

"Yes," Michael repeated. "I'm sure." Mike asked him something about the menu, but he couldn't concentrate on the question. His thoughts felt scattered, his nerves frayed. "The thing is," he told Sara, "I've really wanted to see him, but…I didn't think I had the right. I _still_ don't."

He could tell she wanted to argue with him, but couldn't. "I know," she said simply instead, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

* * *

"Have you ever been in an MRI machine before?" the technician asked Mike, as they all stood in front of the metallic tube.

Sara watched him shake his head. "No. What does it do?"

"It takes pictures of your body," the tech answered brightly.

"How?" Mike said. "My dad says it's magnetic."

The woman blinked, evidently not asked follow up questions by children very often. "Well, it's kind of complicated."

Sara tried to hide her smile as Mike just waited patiently for her to continue.

"It doesn't hurt," the tech said instead, "but can be kind of boring. You have to lay very still. Do narrow spaces bother you, Mike?"

He shook his head. "I went into the crawl space under our house once," he offered, "and that was okay."

"Oh!" she said. "Why?"

"Just to see what was down there," he answered. "It was mostly spiders."

"Well!" The tech said. "I can promise there are no spiders in here, so it will be easy for you."

Michael waited with Sara, surprised when they were told the radiologist would read Mike's scan this same afternoon. How many strings had their pediatrician pulled? When Mike was finished, they went home to wait…or rather, Michael and Sara waited. Mike dug into his homework, happy to have this day of boring medical procedures over with. When the phone rang just before dinner, Michael let Sara answer it, preferring to read her face rather than listen. She spoke with someone briefly before being put on hold.

"The radiologist is having us talk directly to the neurologist," she said. "She's coming to the phone." She seemed pleased by this.

"That sounds serious," Michael answered, but she shook her head.

"Good news over the phone, bad news in person," she said. The neurologist came on the line, and Sara smiled at Michael across the kitchen table right away. He felt about a year's worth of tension leave his body. They only spoke for a minute, and when Sara hung up, she said what he'd wanted to hear since seeing the blood on Mike's shirt.

"Everything is fine. Scan is completely normal."

"But she knows my history, right?" Michael pressed. "The neurologist?" Because this seemed too good to be true.

Sara nodded, and went to her laptop. "She sent me an email with a copy of the scan," she said, pulling it up on her screen. The brain image meant little to Michael, but Sara continued to smile, looking at it. "When I saw your scans, uh, ten years ago, there were differences here, and here," she said, pointing. Then she frowned. "I want to see yours from after your last surgery," she said, "to compare. Do you think they were in your records?"

He really had no idea. "I'm fine now," he reminded her, and she smiled more hesitantly at him.

"I know," she said softly. "But I still want to see." This seemed to remind her: "The neurologist wants to see Mike in two years, to re-scan, just in case, which I think is a good idea."

"Definitely," he agreed, but she was still staring at the scan on her screen, looking more anxious again. He knew she wasn't worrying about Mike's brain anymore. "Hey," he said, redirecting her attention to his face. "I'm completely healthy. I've felt great for years."

"I know," she repeated. She gave him a more bracing smile. "But I'll never _not_ worry."

* * *

Just before 5 pm the next day, Sara's nurse Kaylie popped her head into Sara's office with an apologetic smile. Uh oh.

"Do you have time for a walk-in? He's in Exam 3."

She really didn't, but if the patient had already been put in a room… "Is Dan still here?" Maybe he could see him. Didn't he 'owe her one'?

Kaylie shook her head. "He ducked out after lunch."

Sara sighed, but she wasn't sorry; Dan had been making himself scarce around her since the gala. "Exam 3, you said?"

She entered the room with a quick knock, and the man waiting turned from the open window to face her.

"Henry," she breathed.

He offered her a hesitant smile. "I imagine this feels like an ambush, but I promise you it's not."

"Okay." She swallowed, closing the door softly behind her. "How are you?" She held out her hand, and he surprised her by clasping it in both of his own, warmly. Henry Pope looked undeniably older than the last time she'd seen him, on that awful day she and Michael had most definitely ambushed him at his home, while chasing down Steadman's incriminating tape. He seemed a bit shorter, somehow, grayer, though his hands felt strong and firm as they squeezed hers.

"I saw you yesterday," he said. "Both of you, actually, and…I couldn't stop thinking…and then I couldn't sleep last night. My wife suggested maybe, if I stopped in to see you…" he trailed off awkwardly. Sara noticed he'd avoided saying Michael's name.

"How is Judy?" she asked.

Henry nodded. "Good, good." He'd taken to clasping and unclasping his hands in front of him since releasing hers. "She's taken a shine to the egg drop soup at this dim sum place downtown. It's where I saw you, walking in? And I wanted to say something, well, I was _debating_ saying something, and then this kid ran into me, and distracted me and I admit I used the opportunity to escape." He looked down, at his hands.

Sara leaned against the exam table, taking some comfort in its solid presence behind her. "Yeah. That kid, um, was ours. Who ran into you." Henry looked up at her swiftly, an odd look on his face, and she added, "I promise he usually has better manners. I'm sorry."

A sort of awed smile tugged at Henry's mouth. It reminded Sara why she'd always liked this man so much. "Was it now? Wow."

"I actually didn't see you," Sara said, "but Michael did." She let his name linger there, between them. "And it's been bothering him, too."

Henry's face tightened. "I'm sure he hadn't given me a thought in years."

Sara pinched her eyes shut. "That's not true," she told him. She fished her phone out of her pocket, and walked over to him, scrolling through recent photos to find the one she wanted to show him. "We have a second son, as well," she said. "He's two." She showed him a photo. "His name is Henry," she said softly. It felt almost like a confession.

Henry Pope reached for the phone and studied the image of her Henry with intense scrutiny. She wasn't sure how he'd take this, having a namesake, without his blessing, who looked so like Michael. When he handed her back the phone, his eyes were wet.

"Why did he do that?" he asked, almost roughly.

"He — we — wanted to name our son after people we admired. People who reminded us to be better people ourselves." She paused. "His middle name is Charles, after Westmoreland."

Pope swallowed, his mouth in a tight line. She couldn't read him at all. Nerves danced through her belly. "What's your older son's name?" he asked.

"Mike," she told him. "Michael. That was uh, my idea. On my own."

Henry pondered this. "Because you were? On your own?"

"For a time."

He sighed. "I read in the papers…I mean, I kept abreast of it all. Amazing, all that came to light a few years ago." But then he looked wretchedly unhappy for a moment. "I sent you a note, when I read his obituary. Did you get it?"

She blinked. "No." She wished fervently that she had. "I moved around a lot in those months," she told him. Perhaps he'd sent it to Miami when she'd already fled to Panama. "But thank you. That means a lot."

"It's a little late now," he smiled sadly.

"It's not, though," she told him, forcing herself to make eye contact when she really wanted to look away. "It's not too late."

He caught her drift, but his face darkened again. "I came to consider him like a son," he said, and Sara could practically taste the bitterness of his words. "I really did." He looked at her. "I had one of my own once. Did you know that?" She shook her head. "He wasn't too much older than your…Mike…when he died."

"I'm so sorry," she breathed.

His face twitched, almost indecipherably, and then he sighed deeply. "Henry, huh?" He shook his head. In bewilderment? In disbelief? Sara couldn't decide. "What's he like?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Why don't you come meet him?"

His brow furrowed. "I"m not going to bother him. I'm sure he has other things to do."

Sara smiled. "Well, he's a toddler. His schedule is pretty open."

This garnered a returned smile, but it still looked pained. "And his father?"

"Would love to see you." He was also scared to death to see him, but that didn't negate the fact that he longed to make things right. Henry looked down at his shoes, and she added, "A lot of years have passed, Henry. He had to be someone in Fox River he didn't want to be. _I_ was someone there I didn't want to be. Some days, you were, too."

He looked up. "You're going to blame the Job on this one?"

"No. But I won't blame him, either." She decided to be brutally honest. "Not anymore, anyway."

Her candor seemed to resonate. "I like to think, oh, I don't know…that had he and I met anywhere else, at a bar somewhere, something like that, it could have been different. That I could have been a mentor to him, maybe." He glanced at her. "That probably seems silly to you."

"No," she said. "Not at all."

They both fell silent for a beat, and Sara glanced at the time. "Why don't you come to dinner tonight?" she pressed. "Pick up Judy on your way."

"Now?" He looked panicked.

She nodded, and jotted down their address on her prescription pad, handing it to him. "Consider it an invite. We really hope you can make it."

He accepted the paper and said, "You're sure about this?"

 _I hope so._ "Definitely."

* * *

At home, Sara walked into barely controlled chaos. Henry greeted her at the door in a diaper and a superman cape, nothing else, and at the kitchen table, Mike appeared to be in the midst of a mini-meltdown over homework.

"But why can't I get it?" he disparaged tearily to Michael, who seemed well over whatever battle they'd been waging.

"I think you're using the wrong equation," Michael answered, in a tone that led Sara to believe he'd suggested this several times already. At least she could see and smell the makings of dinner in progress.

"Hey," she said, setting her bag down and crossing to Mike first. "It's Friday night, baby. Why don't you leave this until tomorrow?"

"Because it doesn't make sense," he contended in a shaky voice. "And I don't know what I'm doing wrong." He slammed his pencil onto the paper for emphasis, and the lead broke, marking a deep line across his work. "Ughhhh!"

"Whoa, hey now," Sara said, while Michael just pinched the bridge of his nose like his head hurt. " _You're_ going to pull it together," she told Mike, "and I'm going to dress Henry," she told Michael, "because…and I am so sorry about this now, but…"

"What?" he said suspiciously.

"I…invited someone over."

"What are you talking about? Who?"

She hesitated long enough to draw his attention to her fully. "Henry Pope showed up in my exam room today."

Michael just looked confused. "For an appointment?"

"To talk to me. He saw you, yesterday, at lunch."

Realization dawned. "You invited Henry Pope here for dinner?" he said softly. Too softly, for Sara's comfort.

"And his wife. Judy."

Michael's face mirrored Henry's when she'd invited him. It basically reflected pure fear. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "He blindsided me."

"He asked to come over?"

She shook her head. "I invited him."

 _Their_ Henry decided upon that moment to enter the kitchen, with Sara's lab coat now worn over the cape and his head, causing him to stumble around like a ghost. He knocked over the trash can with a loud clatter, and seemed to have gotten into peanut butter somehow, too.

" _Really,_ Sara? Now?" Michael righted the trash just in time, cursing under his breath.

"Can't say that," Mike noted rather sanctimoniously.

Michael spun on him next. "I'll say what's needed, as the situation warrants," he told him.

"Can I, too, Mom?"

"No." She looked back at Michael. "I am sorry," she told him, "and I shouldn't have said anything before checking with you first, but it felt right, really right, in the moment, and I really do think this will be a good thing."

Michael looked like he had a lot more to say, but in the end, he just sighed. "It's too late to back out now. You get Henry cleaned up. I'll make sure we have enough to eat."

"What about my math?" Mike said.

 _"Later,"_ Michael and Sara answered simultaneously.

* * *

"I don't even know if they'll show up," Sara said, when they'd reconvened downstairs. Michael didn't know whether this was a hopeful statement or a caveat. She'd let Henry keep the cape, but had washed his face and added pants and a t-shirt to his ensemble. He'd just gotten his first official haircut, and Michael kept sneaking looks at him; with his ringlets replaced by shorter wavy locks, Henry seemed more 'little boy' than 'baby' now.

Then the doorbell rang, sending all thought of Henry's haircut skidding out of Michael's brain. His mouth went dry, and he let Sara answer it. He watched from the entry way while she smiled at Pope and shook Judy's hand, saying something about it being a long time. Judy hugged her.

Michael said, "Henry." He cleared his throat. "I'm glad you're here."

Henry strode through the doorway toward Michael, and after only a brief hesitation, extended his hand. It was easy to forget, Michael thought, how commanding his presence could be, without his even trying. It was almost intimating, shaking Henry's hand, and Michael rarely felt intimidated by anyone, anywhere.

Henry nodded at him, still gripping his hand, and Michael felt a lump swell in his throat. He cleared it again, and greeted Judy. He felt Mike at his side, and said, "I'd like you to officially meet our eldest. He apologizes again for—"

"My lack of spacial awareness, yesterday," Mike interjected. He looked up at Pope earnestly. "I hope I didn't bump into you too hard."

"Oh, my!" Judy said, charmed, and Pope smiled, too.

"I can assure you I'm not knocked off my feet quite that easily yet," he told Mike, and shook his hand, too. He cocked his head, peering down at Sara's knees, where Henry had half-hidden himself. "And I'm to assume this is your younger son?"

"Henry, meet Henry," Sara said, prying the toddler loose and lifting him up into her arms. He wrapped his legs around her waist and ducked his head against her shoulder to eye these strangers from a safer vantage point.

It wasn't like Henry to be this shy, but Pope looked at him in the customary wonder Michael's son routinely attracted. "Are you a superhero?" Pope asked Henry, noting the cape.

Henry stared back at Pope solemnly. "Yes."

Pope nodded thoughtfully, mirroring Henry's serious expression. "I suppose that tracks," he decided, making Judy laugh.

Sara brought them all into the living room, embracing the hostess role, which was a good thing, because Michael still felt tongue-tied. The attention remained on the kids, which helped.

(Michael's) Henry warmed up to the social situation. He now stood on his own two feet as the adults sat around him, spinning in circles to watch his cape billow out behind him. He paused unsteadily to pat his own head. He wasn't used to his new hairdo either.

"Henry just got a haircut," Mike supplied, "because he had all these long curls and everyone thought he was a girl."

"They did not," Sara objected.

"They did," Mike and Michael both responded in kind.

"Because he's so pretty," Mike added, snickering.

 _Don't call him pretty,_ Michael thought darkly, but he swallowed this comment, for now.

"You're both very handsome boys," Judy offered diplomatically, and turned her attention to a project Mike had set up on a card table out of (toddler) Henry's reach. "What's this? she asked brightly.

"It's the USS Enterprise," Mike told her.

Henry (Pope) stood to take a closer look at the half-constructed plastic model. "Impressive."

"My dad's helping me."

"Should be sound then," Pope noted, circling around to check out the carrier from all sides. "Unless of course, he doesn't want it to be."

"What?" Mike said, while Michael choked a bit on the drink Sara had brought him, but Henry just raised an eyebrow.

He patted Mike on the head. "Nothing," he chuckled. "I wouldn't concern yourself with an old man's mutterings."

Conversation slid mercifully to Sara's work at the clinic, and Pope's retirement, and it wasn't until the middle of dinner that Henry said, "Will you tell me about your work, Michael?"

"Dad makes it impossible for people to break into important buildings," Mike supplied, and Sara shot him a look. When he had the answers, he had a habit of blurting them out. And he almost always had the answers.

"Actually," Michael said, "The first thing I tell new clients is that no structure is impossible to breach, and that therefore, their first security measure should be to adopt the mindset that their facility cannot be 100% secure." He watched Pope's face as he explained this.

Sure enough, the ex-warden seemed to have multiple potential retorts to choose from, but he simply said, "Isn't that the truth."

"But Mike's right, essentially: I use my engineering background and…experience…to make buildings at least 99% secure."

"But you won't help prisons." It was a statement, not a question.

"I'm done with prisons," Michael said softly. When Pope's face twitched in what could be construed as disapproval, he appealed to his sense of logic. "If I were to take on a job for a prison," Michael expanded, setting down his fork to look at Henry seriously, "should my security measures be overridden in some way, at any point and time, what do you think would be the immediate conclusion?"

Henry nodded slowly. "It would be assumed you were collaborating. You'd be named an accomplice."

"I can't expose myself to that, expose my career or my family. And…" he hesitated, but this was true: "present company excluded, the wardens I've met have been dirty, or at very least, highly corruptible. I won't open myself up to that."

Henry sighed, and nodded. "It used to be an honorable profession," he said sadly. "For what it's worth, I knew quite a few good wardens in my day."

"I'm not surprised that you surrounded yourself with like-minded professionals," Michael offered.

Pope acknowledged this with a nod, then changed the subject, somewhat. "I'm curious…what do you think of the new prison reform bill, at the state senate?"

Michael had a lot of opinions on this, as did Henry, and this conversation carried them through the end of the meal. When Henry (junior) had had enough of his pasta and his booster seat, Sara said swiftly, "I got him," and extracted him before Michael could protest, so they could continue to talk.

"How can I help?" Judy asked, pushing back from the table, and Sara accepted her assistance getting coffee so she could get Henry in pajamas. She glanced at Mike as she left the dining room, who had remained at the table with Michael and Pope, drinking in every word of their conversation.

"Mike's fine here," Michael told her, and caught his son's quick smile as he sat up straighter in his chair.

Continuing to talk prison reform, they discussed the connection to Illinois politics at large; neither Pope nor Michael were fans of the latest governor, who had failed to take any sort of stand at all on punishment _or_ rehabilitation.

"My grandfather was governor," Mike supplied. "There's a garden for him now."

"I knew Governor Tancredi," Pope told him. "He was a good man, certainly knew how to take a stand." He smiled. "Even though we rarely saw eye-to-eye."

"Why not?" Mike wanted to know.

Pope glanced at Michael, who waved him permission to continue. "Your grandfather was known for being very strict, very definitive in the punishment of prisoners in this state," he explained.

"Remember how we talked about people wanting to feel safe?" Michael interjected. Mike nodded. "Your grandfather's point of view made people in Illinois feel safer."

"Your father and I saw things a bit differently," Pope explained, "because from where we stood, we didn't have the luxury of seeing everything in black and white." He looked at Michael. "Though I sometimes tried."

For reasons Michael couldn't quite explain to himself, it touched him that Henry had aligned himself with him in this stance. "That's why it was a big deal, a _really_ big deal, actually, when your grandfather finally looked more closely at Uncle Lincoln's case, a prisoner." Michael had been filling in the brushstrokes of Mike's understanding of the breakout bit by bit. He didn't yet know Lincoln had faced a death sentence, however, and didn't need to know right now, in Michael's opinion.

"Why did he do that for you, then?" Mike asked. "If he didn't like prisoners?"

"He didn't do it for me," Michael explained. "He did it for your mother. Because _she_ asked him to."

Now it was Pope who sat staring from one speaker to the next, just as Mike had done earlier, taking in the family history lesson.

"The point is, people can change their minds," Michael told Mike.

"Except for our current governor," Pope added wryly, "who doesn't seem to have a mind to change."

Mike nodded enthusiastically at this joke. "If my dad doesn't like him, I don't either."

Pope smiled, and Michael chided, "What did we just say about making up your own mind, Mike?"

"Enjoy the reverence while it lasts," Henry smiled. When Mike had excused himself in search of dessert, he added quietly, "He could do worse than to idolize his father."

"Thank you, Henry," Michael said. It felt hard to speak around the returned lump in his throat, but it also felt imperative that he do so. "I know the mistakes I've made have been numerous," he said slowly, "the fallout around me grievous. There was a time, when I was much younger and inexcusably arrogant, when I thought my actions wouldn't effect anyone. That I could step into your prison and do what I needed to do, without any destruction in my wake. My learning curve in that regard was swift and brutal. And second only to my wife's, the collateral damage you suffered, I regret most."

Henry's face tightened, and he rose abruptly from the table. Michael felt himself rise in response, not knowing whether Pope planned to storm out or shout at him or what. But then he circled the table to him and embraced him, clapping his hands around his back, holding him tightly. Again, Pope's physical presence surprised Michael; he was stronger than he'd anticipated. It felt odd, and exhilarating, and yes, healing, to be accepted by Henry like this, and though there were a dozen more apologies to make, Michael suddenly couldn't think of a single thing more to say.

When Henry released him, he said simply, "Don't be a stranger, Scofield," then peered around him into the kitchen for Judy. "It's time to get out of their hair and head on home," he decided, just as Sara returned downstairs with a pajama-clad Henry, waving goodnight.

When the door closed behind them, Sara turned to face Michael nervously, and before she could say anything, he pulled her against him, squirming Henry and all, and buried his face in her neck and hair. "Thank you," he told her fervently, before she could apologize again or explain herself. "You're amazing and always right and perfect and thank you."

She laughed at him in surprise, the vibrations in her throat tingling his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I finally found a way to use a particular prompt SentaKat has asked for (don't know if she's still reading this fic). And this chapter is work safe, if anyone needs to know before reading.**

Sara's situation at work with Dan had not improved. He couldn't avoid her forever, and though she was relieved he'd stopped making excuses to stop by her office to chat and rarely asked her to work late, he had swung in the opposite direction, avoiding eye contact when they passed in the hall and awkwardly sharing only a few words with her each day. When he asked her to pass him a box of 4x4 bandages from the supply cupboard and their hands momentary brushed, he literally jumped away, and when he went around handing out invites for the clinic's holiday party, he had their receptionist, Deb, deliver Sara's.

She found she missed their easy banter and his intelligent conversation, not to mention having him as an ally here. Dan had supported her from the start, and it was his example that had made her transition to working in Chicago a smooth one. She appreciated that he clearly realized he'd been skating too close to a line at the gala, but couldn't they get back to normal? Surely he wished for the same; he seemed downright miserable, his expression pained every time he looked at her. She was tired of apparently torturing him, by her mere presence in his clinic.

On her lunch hour on a busy day in early December, he knocked on her office door hesitantly. "Sorry, Sara, I need to ask a quick favor if it's not too much trouble?" He looked like he assumed it probably was.

She tried to look very agreeable. "What's up?"

"I need someone to do a blood draw on me, and both nurses are at lunch, and Max (their third physician) is out today. It's my right arm, or I could do it myself."

"No problem." She rose to follow him into an exam room. It was none of her business, but… "Everything alright?"

"Oh, sure. Just due to send a routine sample to my primary's lab. We've got a few hereditary things in my family, so I take precautions."

"Good idea." She gathered the necessary equipment while he settled into a chair by the exam table. "Sorry about this. No one else was around," he repeated.

"It's fine, Dan. I don't mind, of course."

She ignored the jump of his skin when she touched his arm with her gloved hand. He hastily drew it back and rolled his sleeve up for her with another apology. She turned away to prep the needle and tubing with a restrained sigh. His forearm now exposed, she had to palpate his arm for a good vein, and prep it with iodine. More touching necessary. She bent over him, concentrating, feeling his quickened breath in the pulse at his wrist; deja vu, in an odd, disconcerting way. When she'd slid the needle into his vein smoothly and looked up, it was to catch him staring at her. The intensity of his gaze, no match for Michael's, still nearly had her taking a step back. She stopped herself just in time. _Dammit, Dan._

"Alright?" she asked, giving him the opportunity to pass this off as nerves getting stuck with a needle…an experienced physician of some twenty years. She had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

He just nodded, turning his head to watch his blood flow into the collection bag. She leaned back against the exam table, watching the blood flow, too. "I can shut off the stint and extract the needle when it's done," he told her. "You can go back to your lunch."

"With one hand? Don't be silly." He'd make a mess.

Dan just nodded in acknowledgement, half resigned, half grateful. "I appreciate it."

"Dan, it's no big deal." _Unless you make it one._ She forced herself to look him in the eye.

"Then listen, Sara, while I have you here…"

She froze by the table, suddenly on alert. She probably looked like a deer in headlights. "Don't, Dan," she whispered.

He ignored her. "You should know, I'll be tendering my resignation next week. I won't be back after the holidays."

This news hit her like a blow. Her immediate and profound disappointment surprised her, really. "Dan, no! Why?"

The blood collection complete, she moved back to his arm almost robotically, sliding the needle out of his vein on autopilot. She pressed a square of gauze to his skin and looked at him.

"I think you know why," he told her quietly. Their faces were only inches apart, and she slid back, indicating for him to take over the pressure on the gauze. His fingers replaced hers on his arm.

From a safer distance, she said, "You don't have to do this."

This statement seemed to embolden him. "I do…unless there's any chance…between…" He lacked a free hand to indicate her and him.

" _No,_ Dan. You know there isn't." The words came out too harshly, a little wildly, but Jesus.

This answer didn't surprise him. "Then one of us has to go, and I won't let it be you."

His words set her even further on edge, but she said, "There's no need to derail your career over this." Because it was nothing, right? "We can easily get past this, get back to normal."

He smiled at her sadly, tossing his gauze into the garbage can and applying a band-aid. "I don't think so," he told her softly, once he'd dropped his gaze back to his arm.

Her thoughts swung wildly. "No one else will support me here," she blurted. It was an incredibly selfish thing to think of, but Dan had hired her when perhaps no one else would, and dammit, none of this was her fault. If he left… "You bring someone else in as director, I won't be here long, either."

"I wouldn't let that happen," he told her swiftly.

"It wouldn't be in your control."

He looked up at her from his chair. She still stood, arms crossed over her chest, at the other end of the room. "No, Sara, I mean…I want _you_ to be director."

This took her aback. "That doesn't feel…earned."

"The board already agrees. I told them I was considering a position with Doctors without Borders, which is true, and they put forth your name before I could."

"Really?"

"Your first task will be hiring a new staff physician to replace yourself. Which won't be easy." He looked at her hopefully, not unlike the way Henry looked at her when presenting her with a toddler-constructed offering molded from play-doh or drawn in crayon. She didn't want this gift, not this way.

"I want to talk to the board."

"Of course. I'll set it up."

"And I don't want you to go, for the record."

He looked at her, eyes warm, and a tad too bright. He started to say something, thought better of it, and rose swiftly. "Thank you. That means a lot to me." He attempted a self-deprecating smile. "And now I'd better head out, before you start begging," he joked lightly.

He departed, and the door closed with a soft swish behind him, and Sara finally exhaled.

* * *

"I just feel it's a shame," she told Michael a few hours later, in their living room in front of their fireplace. "He doesn't need to take such drastic measures."

He toyed with her hair as she leaned her head against his shoulder on the couch. His thoughts were a maelstrom of conflicting emotion, hearing this account of her afternoon, but he kept them in check, locked down behind his best impression of a calm demeanor. He said simply, "Why not?"

"Because I could easily handle the situation."

Was she genuinely missing the point? "But _he_ couldn't. You understand that, right? That's what he was telling you."

He felt her shrug, which made it harder to keep his feelings in check.

"Don't play dumb, Sara."

His tone betrayed him, and she swiveled her head to look at him guardedly.

"What he feels for you is serious," he told her. "You're taking it too lightly."

"I'm giving it the gravity it deserves, which is none," she countered. "It's nothing!"

"To _you._ " She'd drawn back from him, and he looked hard at her. "Right?"

Her eyes instantly flashed. He shouldn't have added that question, but hadn't been able to stop it from leaving his mouth.

"Is there something you want to ask me, or do you just want to throw accusations at me?" She'd sat up, dislodging herself from him.

He hardly felt he'd 'thrown accusations', but fine: "Do you have feelings for him?"

She'd been bluffing when she'd invited his question, because she looked at him with shock. "I can't believe you have to ask that."

"And I can't believe you think I wouldn't need it answered." He reached for her, but she wasn't having it. "You think I'm surprised Dan fell for you? You think that's a stretch for me to understand? He's hardly the first man smart enough to know how great you are. He won't be the last. I only care what _you_ think."

"I thought I had a friend, okay? Instead I lost one."

"Okay," Michael said more softly. He reached for her again, and she didn't pull back when his palm came to rest on her thigh.

"He's a good guy," she said defeatedly.

"He did the right thing," Michael agreed. "That does't mean I don't want to punch him."

She frowned at him, but only half-heartedly, and he knew he could pull her closer to him again. She resettled against his side, her cheek tucked back against his shoulder. "Feelings for him," she muttered. "Honestly."

He let her chide him, but wouldn't let her invalidate his concern. "I never want to take your feelings for _me_ for granted," he told her simply. "Are you going to criticize me for that?"

"Michael," she said softly, "since I fell in love with you, I have jumped bail for you. I have put my career, my life, and my future on the line for you. I have pulled the trigger for you. I have resigned myself to dying for you. I've killed for you. I have lost you and mourned you and waited for you and chosen you _again_." She fell silent for a moment, and he studied her profile in the firelight, the curve of her cheekbone highlighted in the glow of the licking flames. He couldn't speak, not after that speech. "If you think all that can be upset by a colleague with a crush, I don't know what to tell you."

He tipped her chin upward with one finger, needing to look into her eyes as much as he needed to taste her kiss. "Just, tell me often, and we'll be fine," he said roughly. He closed his mouth over hers.

She managed to kiss him back while making sure he could see her rolling her eyes. "I shouldn't need to _tell_ you, Michael," she began in a rush when he'd released her, but he chuckled.

"But you just did," he whispered, recapturing her mouth. "So I win." He silenced any forthcoming retort with another kiss.

* * *

At dinner a few nights later, Mike said, seemingly out of nowhere, "A bunch of the other kids in my class have their own phone. I think I need one, too."

Michael said confidently, "No 4th grader needs their own phone."

Mike didn't argue this, but Sara could practically see the wheels in his head turning. "Not for texting and emojis and stuff," he said carefully, looking at his father. "For _safety._ "

Unsurprisingly, this worked. Michael paused, eyeing Mike. "Do you not feel safe?"

"He feels perfectly safe," Sara interjected, pushing the salad toward Mike with a stern look. "He just wants a phone."

"Mike?"

To his credit, Mike now looked a little guilty to have played his father so effortlessly. "Well," he hedged, "I do, it's just that sometimes, it would help to be able to call you or Mom if practice ends early, or if I want to make a playdate at school."

"I see," Michael said, though Sara wasn't sure he actually did. "It would be good for Ellie to have a way of contacting you on the days she picks you up, when I'm away," he noted. "I'll think about it." Sara cleared her throat. "We'll think about it," Michael amended.

In the end, they compromised. Mike didn't need a brand new phone; a used one that could still make and receive calls and messages would suffice. They agreed he would inherit an old phone of Sara's, which she'd recently noted in a box of office stuff, still unpacked from the move. She'd deactivated this phone when Michael returned, actually, to avoid calls from press and Jacob's family and friends. Why they still even had it, she didn't know. It had simply fell into a black hole of outdated technology in a desk drawer, she supposed.

They didn't get a chance to reactivate the phone until Michael's next trip away; this time, he had brought Fernando along on a three-day job in Brazil. "It's actually better this way," Sara told Mike, finally digging out the phone for him. He'd watched Youtube tutorials and was eager to bring the device back to life himself, step-by-step. "With Dad gone, you can practice texting Ellie."

"Will this thing even work?" Mike asked dubiously, turning the phone over in his hands, noting the ancient operating system.

"Once we get it turned back on, it will call Dad or me or Ellie, send files, and texts, and that's all you wanted it for, right?" Sara asked, hiding a smile.

"Yeah," Mike agreed half-heartedly.

"Alright," she said, "have at it." She powered it back to life and left him picking his way through the rudimentary menu options to go in search of Henry. He'd been quiet in his room for far too long.

She had just extracted the toddler from the bookcase he'd decided to scale when she heard a very odd sound downstairs. It wasn't quite a scream, but rather an anguished wail, low and primal. And though it sounded nothing like him, it was definitely Mike. Her first thought: what on earth could he have done to hurt himself with that phone? Her second: how fast could she take the stairs with Henry on her hip?

"Mommmmmmmm! Mom, Mom, Mom!"

Very, very fast. As she burst back into the library with Henry, she had never heard or seen Mike this upset. (And he had seen some horrible shit.) A third thought flooded her head, drowning out the rest: had he just seen something _on_ the phone? God, what? Because that was it, she was sure: Mike held it out like the screen might bite him, his face chalk white, tears streaming down his face.

"Mike?"

"He's going to die!" Mike howled, staring at the phone. Michael's voice came through the tinny speaker, and Sara crossed the room at a sprint.

"What?" she said, because Henry had started to cry, too, in her ear, at the sight of his brother's distress. Her brain couldn't compute any of this: why would Michael call this phone? How could he, even? What was happening? She couldn't make sense of this scene, over Mike's anguish, over Henry's cries.

"He says…he says…"

She tried to grab the phone from Mike, but his fingers were locked around it in a death grip. "Mike! Give me that!"

On the screen, Michael said her name, and she looked down and his face swam into focus. And then she understood Mike's wail of distress, because one of her own had risen in her head, like a siren. Michael's face looked sweaty and dirty. He'd been beaten. He was crying. Some kind of concrete wall stood behind him, it was dark. What _the fuck_ was this?

As if she'd said this aloud (God, had she?) Mike answered, "It's a video from Dad! I haven't even set up my new number yet, but somehow, there's a video from Dad!"

A video? She couldn't properly hear Michael on the screen anymore. All she heard was her pulse pounding in her ears. Mike crying. Henry crying. Herself, crying. She got snippets: _putting you in danger. Never stopped loving you. Kaniel Outis._

That name made her knees go weak. Because this could not be happening again. And to make it worse, instead of trying to make sense of the words he was telling her, her brain kept getting stuck on one problem, a problem that shouldn't even matter: why this phone? He couldn't know they'd just turned it on, not now. Not now. Oh! Hope slammed into her fear, startlingly strong. _This recording was not now._

Please let this be true. She played the video again, from the beginning, and made herself pay attention. Even when it was awful, and it was awful the whole time.

 _Sara, I'm putting you in danger by saying this, but maybe it doesn't matter because I'll be dead, and they'll leave you alone. But I love you. You'll see I loved you. I never stopped loving you. This whole lie, it was for you. Sara, if I … If I do die, don't let them put Kaniel Outis on the headstone, because that's never who I was. Make them put my real name, the man I have always been, Michael Scofield."_

"Mom!" Mike pulled on her arm urgently, still sobbing, like she should be doing something about all this, but he wasn't trying to view the video again. He'd buried his face in his hands.

She ignored him and hit play again. She forced her eyes from Michael's tear-streaked face to scan the background this time…darkness, industrial concrete, gloom. She studied his demeanor, his familiar mannerisms, how his hands held the phone he spoke into…his hands. _His hands._ Tattooed. With the eye. And then she was sure.

Relief had her sinking to her knees right there on the office floor. Henry cried harder.

"Mike, grab my phone." He shook his head viciously, and she shook him by the shoulders. "My phone on the counter!" she shouted at him. Call Dad. FaceTime."

"But he's—"

"Call! Dad!"

He obeyed, but when Michael answered—he answered!—Mike reburied his face, like he couldn't bear to see him. "Mike?"

Sara dropped the video and snatched the phone. Michael was whole and healthy, wearing a crisp collared shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. Wearing a tie. Wearing his glasses. Maybe in a hotel room? He was fine. He was fine. She'd meant to ask him questions very calmly, not to alarm him, just to make sure he was alright, but at the sight of him, she broke down sobbing again, like a fresh dam had just broken somewhere in her.

Michael, of course, went wild with worry and fear. It took Sara almost five minutes to calm both of them down, and then calm the boys down, who continued to cry along with them. Henry tried to crawl his way up her lap to her chest, while Mike pressed violently against her shoulder, his hands clutching her shirt.

She tried to explain, but Michael kept saying, "What video?"

"It's you," Sara tried yet again. "Maybe in Ogygia? Maybe after? I don't know." Her voice still felt raw with emotion.

Comprehension slowly dawned. "I was addressing you?" he asked softly. "In the video?"

"Yes."

He released a deep, guttural sigh. "I tried to send that to you before I was free, but it never went through," he said.

"Well, it came through today, when Mike reactivated my old phone."

He leaned back against his hotel headboard, eyes closing tightly. "I'm so sorry," he told her roughly. "It must have been caught in a server somewhere, all this time. "Did Mike…?"

"Yes."

"Mike?" Michael said anxiously, knowing he was nearby. Sara handed her phone to their son, who accepted it reluctantly, like he still might see his father bruised and beaten instead of sitting in a Marriott suite. "I'm so, so sorry you saw that, Mike," Michael told him. Mike reached out a hand to hesitantly touch the screen, then seemed to realize that was silly and dropped it.

"It's okay," he managed, but turned his face away again as fresh tears spilled.

Sara retook the phone and walked to the other side of the room from the kids. "What _was_ that, exactly?" she asked. "Why did you make it?"

In his hotel room somewhere in Rio, Michael looked very far away. Far away from her, far away from the job in Brazil, far away from the here and now. "All those years away," he said eventually, "I told myself I'd get the chance to fix it, to make it right, to explain everything to you. But that day, it felt like the end of the road. I thought it may have been my last chance, so I took it."

And if it _had_ been the end for Michael, Sara asked herself mercilessly? What would that have looked like? She wouldn't have deactivated her phone. That message, caught in limbo, would have reached her sooner rather than later. What would she have been doing, when it caught her unawares? Sitting down to dinner with Jacob? Telling Lincoln for the hundredth time to move on, to get his life together? Michael would have died twice. She would have started all over again, mourning him.

She had to sit back down. Henry trotted over, dry-eyed now that everyone else had calmed down. She pulled him up on her lap, and let him wave at his father. She choked up again when he waved back at their baby. Henry pressed his face to the screen in an attempt to give Michael a very wet and open-mouthed kiss, and Michael said to Sara, "It was a love letter to you, sweetheart. It's as simple as that."

She had no words for this. The images of him in that video still felt too raw to allow her to parse his message fully. She'd download the video, she told herself, get it off that phone and somewhere she could watch it with less terror, later.

"Is Mike alright?" Michael asked.

She couldn't lie. "Not particularly."

He asked to talk with him again, and this time, Mike took the phone more willingly. He propped it on his lap on the couch and talked to his dad quietly. Sara heard Michael say something more about Ogygia and 'long time ago' and then something like 'needed Mom to know' and then Mike asked when Michael would be coming home, and said, "I think I'll sleep with Mom in your room tonight, just to make sure she's okay."

She patted him on the head and left the room with Henry, letting them talk.

* * *

When Michael returned from Brazil a few days later, Mike ran straight to him, flinging himself at him in their entryway before Michael could so much as set down his bag. Michael held Mike for a long time, locked in that embrace, and Mike let him, which was somewhat unusual. It wasn't that they weren't affectionate with one another, but most of the time, they expressed this through time spent together and moments shared, in a generally unspoken understanding of love. It felt very welcome to have Mike's arms around him so tightly, his face buried against Michael's stomach.

"Everything is alright, Mike," he told him softly. "I'll always make sure of that."

Mike's arms only tightened around his middle. "I can't stop seeing that video in my head, Dad," he whispered.

Michael flinched inwardly. Who knew that recording would haunt them like this? He continued to hold him, pressing his lips to his hair. Henry managed to squeeze his way between them, and Michael planted kisses on him, too, his presence a welcome lightening of the mood. He reached for Sara next, gazing at her solemnly over Mike's head. "I'm sorry," he told her. Told all of them.

Mike slept with them that night (Sara told Michael this was actually night three in their bed), wedged between his parents with one arm cast over Michael's waist until he fell asleep. They shifted him to Michael's other side after that, and Sara took his place, nestling against Michael with a shuddering sigh. She was quiet, too quiet; after a moment, Michael suspected her of silently crying.

"Hey, hey," he whispered. "I'm so—"

"Don't apologize again," she choked, her voice muffled in the crook of his shoulder. She tightened her arms around him, until she was holding him almost as fiercely as Mike had earlier. "When I think of you in that place…I just can't…I can't…"

"Don't then," he told her, brushing her hair back from her face to kiss her. "Think of me here, instead. I'm here."

He felt her nod. "I watched it a few more times," she said, "to hear your words again, and I thought I'd want to save a copy of this video like I did your goodbye video, but…"

Goodbye video? Oh, the one he'd made before breaking her out of Miami-Dade.

"But I think I want to erase it instead."

"Alright." She'd turned her head to try to read his expression, but she didn't need to; this video, too, had been a goodbye, and he didn't need for her to hear that from him now. "Good idea," he told her.

He held her quietly until she fell asleep against him. She slept fitfully; Mike seemed much more at peace, curled up on his opposite side. Michael lay awake in the dark for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, his body clock disoriented after flying home from South America. His mind refused to shut off, images of Ogygia flooding it thanks to so much discussion of the video, playing out in a horror show on the darkened walls of their bedroom. It wasn't completely unusual, to be treated to a private screening of his past, but it was always worse when he was fatigued, when his brain felt defenseless. He knew he should probably go downstairs in search of the prescription bottle of sleep medication Dr. Kate had prescribed him, which he so rarely allowed himself to take, but he couldn't bear to leave this bed and the warmth of Sara and Mike beside him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on their soft, even breathing instead, reminding himself that _this_ was what was real. This was real. This was real.

He must have eventually succumbed to sleep, because the next thing he knew, sunlight flooded the bedroom from their large window overlooking Oz Park, and a small foot had been flung into his face. Henry, trying to climb into the bed with them. Michael tried to corral his flailing limbs quickly, before an errant kick could wake the others, and lacking any other space, Henry settled contentedly on his chest, legs straddling Michael's ribs, like he was a horse he'd decided to ride.

Keeping Henry quiet proved harder than keeping him contained; he babbled at Michael happily, sandwiching his face between his small hands to ensure his attention as he told him some long story of (mostly) gibberish. Michael nodded and whispered back to him as Sara stirred, then opened her eyes to glance at their bedside clock, then groaned.

"There was a time I'd sleep until noon on Saturdays," she mumbled in Henry's direction, propping her chin on Michael's shoulder to smile at their son. Henry gazed back at her cheerfully, then resumed his tale. Something about 'gaffes', his latest favorite safari animal; and Mike; and 'other peoples too'.

"Hmm," Michael told him. To Sara, he said, "I always got up at 6 am, even on weekends."

He'd meant it as a confession more than a boast, but she flung an arm over her eyes and said, "Of course you did."

Henry rolled off Michael to squeeze into the (lack of) space between them, burrowing his face into Sara's armpit, and she captured his ankle just before his foot landed in her stomach. "Our bed feels a little crowded," she noted dryly.

Michael studied her and Henry, willing the image to sear into his brain, inviting it to replace the darkness of Ogygia. He glanced at Mike, who somehow slept on, face now pressed against Michael's pillow.

"He hadn't slept much at all, until you got back," Sara said, following Michael's gaze. "You know how it's hard for him to shake visuals, once he's seen something."

He nodded mutely. He knew exactly. She began to rise, uprooting Henry, but Michael halted her with a hand on her arm. "Don't get up yet. Please?"

She smiled gently, running a hand lightly over his head, and obliged him, bringing a squirming Henry back down between them. "Are you alright?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "I just…need this," he told her, indicating the bed at large, the disorder of blankets and legs and arms. His family, together in one place, was far more therapeutic than any pharmaceutical. Suddenly, he knew what else he needed, another form of therapy which he'd allowed to slip through the cracks after their move: "Is it too late to get to Baja?" he asked her.

When their usual rental in Cabo hadn't been available for their early-November week, they'd let the tradition slide; it had seemed less necessary, this year, with Michael's family in such close proximity now that they were in Chicago. Somehow, it was now mid-December, the madness of the holiday season already upon them.

"Kind of," she hedged. "I mean, when would we go?" Mike had a holiday concert for his new orchestra class this week, Sara had her clinic holiday party next, and Sucre had invited them to some shindig at his house. "We said we wanted to spend Christmas here, and then we have to prepare for our New Year's party."

Henry started drumming his hands enthusiastically on Sara's chest, and Michael gently redirected him, rolling him back onto his body, instead. "Thank you," she smiled.

"What about later in January?"

"Take Mike out of class right after the break? He won't approve," she noted gently. "And if I'm taking over directorship of the clinic…"

"February then."

"Febu-berry," Henry echoed, trying to stand on Michael's stomach.

"That could work." She eyed their son's precarious balancing act. "But that won't," she told Henry, grasping his hand as he wobbled unsteadily on the admittedly firm platform of his father's abs. She drew him back down onto the mattress.

"I want to go, Sara. Every year." Suddenly, this felt imperitive. He felt angry at himself that he hadn't prioritized this.

She kissed his forehead, squishing Henry between them in the process, making him giggle. "I do, too," she assured him. "You're right. We need to make it work."

He reached for her hand under the bedcovers. "Negotiate a week off in February before the hand-off at the clinic, alright?"

She nodded.

"A week off in February _every_ year. Now's the time to ask for it. God knows, Dan will give it to you. Any week at all. I'll work around it."

"Work around what?" Mike asked sleepily, finally rising. "Where are we going, Dad?"

"Baja. In a few months." He tugged Mike closer, drawing him into their Henry-Sara-Michael tangle of humanity, earning him a smile. "Because we _always_ go, right?"

"Right," Mike agreed readily. "Always."


	7. Chapter 7

Sara and Michael's first Christmas in Chicago marked their fourth Christmas together as a family. When Sara thought back to that first shaky holiday season they'd shared in Ithaca, it felt obvious to her how far they'd come; the sight of a box of Christmas lights could take her right back there, shivering in the garage, angry at Michael, nauseous with morning sickness, fearful that they wouldn't figure this out, wouldn't be able to find their way back to each other, would fail Mike, would break each other's hearts all over again.

And then Henry had arrived, lending his unique brand of bliss to their next two Christmases in New York, his presence adding a sense of joy Sara wasn't sure she'd ever felt fully, even as a child herself. And this year, they had so much to look forward to: Christmas in their new home, the chance to share the day with Lincoln and LJ, new traditions made with their kids in the city they loved, their New Year's party here, where their friends and family lived.

"We can host it on the rooftop patio," Michael told her, drawing up plans for their annual party as they sat in the kitchen on a Saturday afternoon in mid-December. "Fire pit, lights, even a temporary bar up there, if that's alright." He glanced at her to gage her reaction.

"Knock yourself out," she smiled, glad to find they'd reached a point of comfortable banter when discussing such loaded topics as the holidays or Sara's sobriety. She ran a hand over the cropped dome of his head as he bent over his notes at the kitchen counter. Henry napped, and Mike sat at the dining room table in the next room, finishing homework. "Remember Heather, Larry, and Dylan will be taking over the upstairs guest rooms, but we can open up the playroom, to keep all the kids close by."

"And we'll have to invite the neighbors, because I'm going to upgrade the sound system," Michael added.

"Oh, did all the background checks clear, then?" She tried to look serious, then grinned at him.

"I told you that idea in confidence," he told her, failing in his attempt to look stern. "And I wasn't serious…I didn't actually run checks on anyone."

"Sure, you didn't." She laughed, and he hooked a thumb around the waistband of her jeans, tugging her to him and silencing her with a thorough kiss.

"You're in a good mood," she noted when he'd released her. She leaned against him, in no hurry to retreat from the V he'd formed for her between his thighs. "Looking forward to the party already?"

"Maybe I'm looking forward to _your_ party," he told her, dipping his head to press a second kiss to the side of her jaw. "Tonight." Sara's clinic holiday party started in a few hours. "Are you going to wear that black dress I love, or the green one I really love?" Another kiss.

She drew back, eyes narrowing. "You _will_ behave." Dan would be there, and Michael knew it.

"I shouldn't," he told her a little more darkly, "but I will. Probably."

She kissed him back lazily, her body pressed against his, drawing away only when she'd decided they were in danger of venturing into PG-13 rated territory in the middle of the kitchen. "I'll wear the green one, if you promise to play nicely," she told him, her hands still locked around the back of his neck. She wanted to climb right up into his lap, and she suspected he knew it.

He gazed back at her intently enough to make her blush, his hand high on her thigh. "You don't really want me to promise," he told her, and she laughed again breathily. If he _did_ manage to behave himself this evening, he was most certainly going to get very lucky tonight.

"What's funny?" Mike called from the dining room, and Sara jumped to move away, but Michael didn't let her, locking her between his legs, his lean quad muscles like a vice.

"Uh," She looked pointedly at Michael, but he only winked at her, so she called to Mike, "Dad says he's lowering the house security measures for the New Year's party," earning her a nip of Michael's teeth at the nape of her neck. She shivered.

"What, no metal detectors?" Mike called.

"Hey!" Michael's laugh tickled her skin.

"I'm just kidding, Dad," Mike amended. They heard the scrape of his chair as he stood up at the table, and Michael finally released Sara before he could round the corner. "I know you'd never have metal detectors."

Michael nodded as Mike entered the kitchen. "I should think not," he mumbled, turning toward the fridge. Sara noted he grabbed the pitcher of ice water and poured himself a large glass.

"You've already told me full body scanners are much more effective," Mike concluded, the line delivered so expertly, Sara truly couldn't decide whether it was sincere or sarcastic. She laughed more ruefully this time. Without a doubt, Mike was more like his father every day.

* * *

While they waited for Ellie to arrive to babysit, Michael reminded himself, in preparation for interacting with Dan at the party, that he was not a jealous man or a petty man or a small man. And then Sara walked down the hallway in the green dress, and he had to tell himself all over again. "You look amazing," he said, letting his lips linger on her temple when he kissed her, his fingers brushing the crook of her elbow to trail down the inside of her arm to encircle her wrist and capture her hand. He waited until he'd caught her eye with his own, then pressed a second kiss very deliberately to the inside of her palm. It wouldn't hurt to keep their flirtation this afternoon at the forefront of her thoughts.

She met his gaze with only a slight flush, after assessing him in his perfectly tailored suit from head to toe. "So do you," she told him, smiling.

Ellie arrived amid the usual pre-bedtime chaos, and fell right in step, taking over Henry's story while directing Mike into his routine seamlessly. Michael felt immeasurably grateful to her, coming back so willingly for an evening shift. She'd quickly become much more like a family member than a sitter, allowing him to leave for a night out with Sara without worry.

On impulse, he retrieved the Christmas card they'd gotten her from his desk drawer, into which he'd slipped what he hoped was a generous check. He hadn't gifted an end-of-year-bonus to a childcare provider before, and didn't know what amount was customary. They'd planned to give it to her the next week, but tonight seemed more fitting. She opened it in front of him, while Sara said goodnight to the kids. When the check slid out into her hand, her jaw dropped.

"Mr. Scofield," she breathed, at a loss. (He'd yet to convince her to call him Michael.) "This is far too much."

"We appreciate you, Ellie," he told her firmly, pleased and relieved the amount seemed to be in the ballpark he had been aiming for…excessive.

"I just…I was expecting a Starbucks card or something, but not this." She stared back down at the check, blinking. Michael frowned, wondering if they were paying her too little on a weekly basis, that she seemed so awed.

I can do that instead," he ventured, smiling at her, "if you'd prefer." She hastened to assure him that would not be necessary as Sara stepped out of Henry's room, tugging on her heels.

"Oh good," she said, noting Ellie's card and embracing her. "Happy holidays."

"Is this…are you sure?" Ellie asked her, still with that faint note of amazement, and Sara told her, "You're worth every penny and more, Ellie. You know we feel that way, don't you?"

She did now, Michael noted with satisfaction, watching her hug Sara a second time.

* * *

The party was held at a restaurant located in a cavernous industrial building in River North, with high ceilings, concrete floors and exposed beams and ducts. It was busy and noisy in the back room the clinic had reserved; Sara told Michael that in addition to their staff and board, Dan had invited some of the clinic's primary partners, like the director of the addiction recovery unit they worked with closely at the hospital, the rep from child social services, the independent RN staff they hired for their free inoculation days, and the like. She introduced him to a few people he didn't already know as they made their way slowly through the crowd. No surprise: Sara was a popular person in the room.

"You're popular too," she told him. as yet another jaw dropped slightly when Sara dropped Michael's name.

"Infamous is not the same as popular," he noted ruefully. He knew she wanted to argue with this, but couldn't.

After being waylaid by the third or fourth person to slide up to Sara, touching her arm or waving to get her attention, Michael threaded his fingers through hers, stilling her momentarily next to him. "Do you notice how people gravitate to you?" he asked her, his lips to her ear.

She shook her head faintly; she either didn't hear him over the din or didn't believe him. He just squeezed her hand. She may never fully recognize the impact she had on people, but it wouldn't be for his lack of trying to point it out to her.

By the time they reached the bar, they also reached Dan. He stood stiffly while he made small talk with someone, trying so hard _not_ to look at Sara, his hyper-awareness of her was obvious. Michael suspected he'd been acutely aware of their progress all the way across the floor. His heart sank; he'd told Sara this had been no simple crush all along, but hadn't wanted to be so clearly proven right.

Sara noticed Dan too, and leaned up to tell Michael, "I'm going to go say hi to Kaylie," tipping her head toward her nurse. He nodded, but she looked at him for another beat before leaving him at Dan's side by the bar, her eyes, dark caramel in the ambient lighting, abruptly scanning his face. He read her sudden spike of anxiety: _behave._

"Who do you think I am," he asked her easily, "my brother? I'll be right over." He flashed her a smile, and she returned it weakly before he turned toward the bar.

He ordered himself a bourbon on the rocks, and waited for the bartender to slide it into his hand before tapping Dan lightly on the shoulder. He suspected he'd been well aware of Michael standing behind him, but still enjoyed watching the flush on his cheeks suddenly pale when he turned around.

"Dan," he said. He held out his hand. "Michael Scofield." They'd met only once before, and he took too much pleasure in reminding Dan of his name, as though it might have escaped him.

Dan looked at his hand like he wondered whether he'd end up on the floor if he took it, then reluctantly shook it. "Of course. It's good to see you," he said cautiously.

Because there were few things Michael enjoyed more than knowing he held the upper hand, he told himself again that he intended to be the bigger man tonight. He glanced down the bar at Sara to remind himself who mattered in this scenario, took a slow sip of his bourbon, and said, "I hear the clinic will be losing you."

Dan gulped a swallow of his own drink in response. "Uh yes, unfortunately it was unavoidable."

This word irritated Michael, so he allowed himself the pleasure of pinning Dan with a long, hard look, not releasing him from his gaze until he could practically feel him sweating. "Unavoidable," he repeated slowly. "That's an interesting way to put it." He took another sip from his glass, the pleasure of the warmth of the bourbon second to the pleasure of watching Dan squirm. "I'm glad to hear the problem can be rectified."

"Absolutely," Dan agreed swiftly. His body language screamed, _please don't hit me._ God, Michael wanted to. Maybe he was more like Lincoln than he'd thought. Instead he nodded easily, clapping Dan on the shoulder perhaps a tad vigorously. This was starting to feel entirely too easy, and he had no interest in mirroring the myriad of bullying tactics he'd witnessed in prisons from here to Yemen.

"Good luck to you," he told Dan simply, and then, "If you'll excuse me." He downed the last of his drink in one swallow and turned to scan the room for Sara, steadfastly resisting the urge to see if Dan's gaze tracked his as he looked for his wife.

He caught her eye immediately—she'd been watching them, he realized—but as he approached her, he noted that the reproof he'd expected to see on her face was instead an interesting cocktail of approval and…hmmm. He knew her well enough to recognize the subtle blush of her skin as arousal, the low burn in her eyes as hunger. _Very interesting, indeed._

He touched her elbow, and she threw him a smile that confirmed his suspicions and sent a swift rush of blood southward. "Come with me," he requested in a low voice, his lips at her ear, after excusing her gracefully from her conversation. She followed as he guided her to the side of the room, where oversized bay doors led to a lit outdoor terrace, empty at this time of year. She shivered as the sudden cold hit her bare arms, but only for a second; Michael pulled her flush against him to kiss her hard the moment they'd stepped into the shadow cast by the exterior wall, out of sight of the crowd at the bar.

She released a quick gasp in surprise at his abruptness, then yielded to him just as fast, kissing him back hungrily, her back to the brick wall. The warm stroke of her tongue, already deep in his mouth, sent any remaining blood racing from his head, which is why it took him a second to realize she'd pulled back, twisting her head away from him.

"Sara?"

She pushed at his chest, trying to free herself from the rough brick, and he stepped back in confusion, giving her space. "What…?"

 _"Dammit,"_ she flung at him, as she pivoted away. She turned her back to him, bracing her hands against a wrought iron high top table by the edge of the patio. With the blood now pounding less violently in his ears, he could make out the buzz of conversation and clink of glassware inside the restaurant, on the other side of the wall. He trailed after her, across the empty patio, baffled. Two seconds ago, she'd been throwing herself at him.

He curled a hand over her shoulder, but she shook him off. "Is it too much to ask that you don't taste like single malt when you do that?"

 _Oh._ Shit. And also…ouch. Her tone implied he had a regular habit of downing shots of booze and manhandling her on deserted patios. Despite the unfairness of this, he simply said, "I'm so sorry, Sara."

"Do you know how much _I_ want a bourbon tonight?" she shot at him.

He shook his head, but since her back was still to him, he added a soft, "No."

"As much as I want one _every_ night."

His thoughts went immediately to his stupid request to set up an open bar at their New Year's party. She'd so easily agreed. So gracefully taken that in stride, just as she did whenever confronted with substances she needed to avoid. Which, now that Michael thought about it, was often, despite the fact that he didn't drink very regularly, and hardly ever in her presence. The bourbon tonight had been unnecessary, just part of his bluster for Dan's benefit, he realized now. Stupid.

"You make sobriety look so easy," he told her slowly, "I forget how hard you work at it."

She turned then with a sigh, her arms folded tightly around herself, hugging her chest. Goose bumps rose on her skin. "I'm sorry," she told him. "You've done nothing wrong. It's just…I can still taste it, on my tongue." She sounded more bitter than angry now.

A few moments ago, he'd wanted to tear her clothes off her. Now, he wished he had something to wrap around her. He stepped toward her, shrugging out of his coat jacket and setting it over her shoulders.

"Thank you," she told him quietly. She pulled it around herself like a shawl.

He leaned against the table next to her, his own arms now folded to ward against the cold, watching her worry the hem of his coat between her fingers.

"Your mother taunted me about this once," she said abruptly. "I never said."

He stared at her hands, unable to look up. He hated, hated, hated thinking about that woman.

"Implied I'd never be a good enough mother for her grandchild."

Anger, red and dark, rose in Michael's gut, instantly heating him. _Not good enough? How dare she._ Plus, his mother didn't get to call Mike that. Even now, posthumously. "Sara, you are the best—"

"Actually, her words ensured I'd never take a sip again." Sara released a hard laugh. "She probably knew that."

Michael swallowed roughly. "Probably." He looked sidelong at her; she stared at a fixed point somewhere past the patio where city lights blurred against the black sky. She still shivered.

 _Enough of this._ They were always better together than stubbornly fighting on parallel fronts. He moved in front of her, blocking her view of who-knew-what, and pulled her against him. She didn't protest this time, resting her face against his chest, her arms still caught under his jacket. He encircled her body, his hands resting on her lower back.

She sighed. A slow, shuddering sound.

"Do you want to go back inside?" he asked.

"In a minute," she said after a time. "I just need to reset my mood."

"Could you reset it to the mood you were in about five seconds before you hated my guts?" he asked hopefully.

She chuckled softly into his shirt. "Maybe later." She looked up at him, and her eyes were soft again, deep and warm. "The night is young, Scofield."

* * *

They returned to the party, Sara slipping out of Michael's suit coat once she'd stepped back into the restaurant, handing it to him as she navigated through the crowd toward the tables laden with food. Michael felt eyes on them (an instinct he wish he hadn't honed) and turned to catch Dan's gaze; who knew what he made of their disappearance onto the patio, but Michael found he didn't care. There was no way that man could peel back the layers of complication that made up Michael and Sara's relationship in one evening, or one month or even one year…Michael invited him to try.

He ordered them both club soda with lime—Sara slid him a look of apology which he waved off—and sampled appetizers as she networked with various clinic supporters and partners. He was content to stay on the periphery of her conversations; this was Sara's world, and he enjoyed watching her own it. If he'd ever wondered who she'd been, outside of her infirmary in their Fox River days, before their months of clawing and fighting their way to survival—and he certainly had—he'd gotten his answer in the past two years. Sara exuded a confidence much like Michael remembered from her father, but with a gentle poise that turned his bulldog tenacity into something much more effective. People listened to her, because she listened to _them_ , genuinely cared about them, related to them, sought to help them.

Right now, she was talking with a case worker for Cook County's foster care system, her head cocked slightly in thought as he shared some of their challenges. "My husband spent some years in the foster care system in Chicago as a child," she told him, turning to draw Michael into the conversation. "It was not an easy time for him."

"I'm sure it's nothing like it used to be," Michael said generously, shaking the man's hand.

"I wish that were true," the case worker told him, looking more haggard than he should, at a holiday party. "And this time of year is particularly tough, of course."

Michael felt a pang, somewhere deep in his gut. He briefly allowed himself to remember the acute pain of being a foster kid at Christmas, then shut the door firmly against the thought. He pictured instead the Christmas morning awaiting Mike and Henry, the morning he, personally, would ensure they had with him and Sara, and that helped, though only a little. "Are there a lot of kids in the system right now?" he asked reluctantly.

"More than we can place in homes with any type of stability," the man said. "That never changes." He looked at Michael sympathetically. "You probably remember the constant shuffling between families, perhaps the less than adequate foster parents. It's so hard to find good homes. Much harder than it should be."

Michael tried not to remember, but his brain betrayed him, as it usually did, flashing him detailed images without mercy. He never forgot the faces of all the people who hadn't wanted him, had considered him a burden, an inconvenience, a paycheck. The spare rooms, stark and impersonal, where he'd shared dressers and beds with too many other foster kids, the hallways where he'd slept on mattresses or just wrapped in a blanket on the carpeting, the closet…the dark closet…the sound of metal scraping wood, over and over, as he tried to work his way out, one splinter at a time… the crash of the door, the sudden, sharp slant of light flooding his retinas when his father….his father…

"Excuse me," he managed, pivoting to retreat. He felt Sara's hand brush his arm, but couldn't let her prevent his escape. He'd gone instantly sweaty and hot…another thirty seconds, and he'd be hyperventilating. It was how these attacks always hit: without warning. Without discretion. He navigated the crowd swiftly, eyes locked on the sign for the men's room, even as his head swam and the floor seemed to shift beneath his feet. Only after he'd made it into the temporary sanctuary of the empty washroom did he allow himself to suck in a greedy gasp of air, then another. Another. He braced heavily against the bank of sinks, gasping like a man dying of thirst might gulp water, until pinpricks of sensation tingled along his fingers and lips, warning him he'd pass out if he didn't stop. He forced himself to slow his breathing, pleading silently with his brain not too surrender completely to the blackness encroaching upon his vision.

Slowly, the darkness faded, and he felt the clammy heat that had gripped him recede, his skin now cold and sweaty. He exhaled deeply, then splashed water on his face, wiping it off with a rough paper towel from the dispenser. He gave himself one more minute to compose himself, and pushed open the door of the washroom.

Sara waited for him on the other side, as he'd known she would be. She looked relieved when he appeared, but just said softly, "I thought it was my night to freak out." The smile she offered him looked pained, the calm in her voice forced, but at least they were there…the calm, the smile.

"I'm sorry," he told her. Her eyes scanned him a bit too clinically, so he joked, "It definitely is your night. That was selfish of me." He threaded his fingers through hers, hoping his palm would be dry to her touch.

It wasn't, but she squeezed his hand gently, almost fraternally, and the gesture sent his mind on another swift return to the past, albeit a more welcoming one. Her hand in his had briefly reminded him of Lincoln's, attempting to comfort, tugging Michael along when he'd felt scared, alone, confused. It made him think of something. "Do you want to get out of here?" he asked Sara. "Can I take you somewhere? Show you something?"

She nodded. "Sure."

He waited for the valet to bring around the car while she grabbed her coat, and a few minutes later, they were crossing the river on I-84 and exiting at West 63rd. "Are you hungry?" She'd hardly eaten a thing at the party.

"I could eat," she supplied carefully, clearly wary of giving the wrong answer and derailing whatever plan he had in store.

"Good," he said, making a left onto Halstead and heading into the Southside. They passed her clinic—dark, the parking lot empty with everyone at the party—and into the working class neighborhood beyond it, the front yards sparse, separated by rusty chain link fencing, the houses sporting bars over the windows. It dawned on him that his Lexus stood out here in all the wrong ways, as he scanned the road signage for the street he wanted. When he found it, he took a left, and it opened back up onto a commercial district with the likes of laundromats, pawn shops, and cash advance offices. He wondered whether the place he sought would still be there, then saw it: Dave's Drive In, the greasy burger and shake joint where Linc had worked a brief stint behind the counter as a teen. One of the 'v's in the neon sign had gone dark, one of the 'd's blinking erratically due to a short in the wires somewhere.

When he swung into the parking lot, Sara said, "Okay..." with a confused laugh.

He parked where he could at least keep the car under the beam of a street light, if not exactly in his sightline from the metal picnic tables scattered outside the drive in, and told Sara to keep her coat on. They'd be eating outside, and besides, they stood out enough in cocktail attire as it was. As they got out of the car, he spotted a boy, probably only a year or so older than Mike, tooling around on a skateboard in the parking lot. That could have been him, once, Michael thought, out on his own, long after a respectable bedtime, in nothing more than a cheap sweatshirt, with no one to worry when he didn't come home. On impulse, he called the kid over, fishing his wallet out of his coat pocket. He placed a $50 in the kid's palm, and said, "I'll double it if I come back and my hubcaps are still where they should be."

"Yeah, you got it, man," the kid enthused, while Sara shook her head in disbelief.

"What if _he_ takes the hubcaps, and your $50?" she asked, when they'd walked toward the order window.

"He won't," Michael said with certainty.

He placed their order and they sat at the cleanest-looking of the sticky tables; they had their pick on this cold December night. "Lincoln worked here in high school," he explained to Sara. "I was living right down the street at the time." He looked over his shoulder toward where he remembered the house. "I guess I was there less than a year, really," he realized now, "but it seemed like longer. I'd sneak out and come here. Linc would slip me food…plates of fries he'd purposely leave too long in the fryer, maybe a milkshake from a mistaken order, and I'd sit right here, watching him work the window. He met Lisa, here. And other girls." He laughed quietly. "Even when it was winter, like this, tonight, I'd down those milkshakes, and then just sit here freezing. Lincoln would get mad at me for that, tell me I was stupid for not getting out of the cold, but I think it only upset him because he had to watch me, shivering, and understood: I'd suffer anything to delay going back to that house."

Sara followed his gaze toward the counter, where a new generation of teenagers held down the fort. When she looked back at Michael, her eyes shone amber in the low light, their customary empathy effortlessly warming him. Instead of telling him she was sorry, offering empty condolences, she asked quietly, "Was that the house where your dad found you, that one time?"

He shook his head. "No, this was before then. This one was okay enough, I guess. Just too many other kids there all the time. They weren't terrible, just miserable themselves, you know? I was younger than most of them, smaller, more sensitive…I suppose I was an easy target when they were in need of a punching bag." He watched Sara swallow tightly. The compassion in her eyes shone brighter, nearly burning him, and he had to look away from her. "Lincoln would come around every once in a while, knock some heads together, and it would be better for a few days, but…" He shrugged. Their order number was called, an unnecessary observance of protocol as they were the only customers, and he welcomed the distraction, rising to get their food.

When he returned with their tray, she said, "Thank you for bringing me here."

He slid her a paper-wrapped burger. "Hold that thought until you try it."

She indulged his attempt to lighten the mood. "I'm sure this will be the best 'sorry excuse for a childhood' burger I've ever had."

He laughed, and she smiled back at him, but then seemed to sober just as quickly. She studied him, her brow furrowed, her burger still unwrapped. "I _love_ you," she told him almost severely, her voice low and earnest.

He looked at her just as solemnly. "And that's why I'm still standing," he told her. It was true. If he knew anything, he knew this: while Lincoln may have gotten him through his childhood, he could trace his survival of the past decade back to Sara, every time, from every angle.

She didn't have a retort for this, though he could tell she tried to think of one. She leaned forward slowly across the table to him, and when she kissed him, her lips felt cold. He placed a palm to her cheek, warming her skin, and kissed her back tenderly, tasting the soda she'd been drinking, the sweetness still on her tongue. He pulled away from her only after hearing a car honk at them from the road, and even then, reluctantly.

"Eat your burger," he told her gruffly.

She snagged a fry from the paper basket between them instead, probably just to prove a point. He watched her eat several, then couldn't resist, kissing her again deeply, tasting salt. This time when their faces parted, he saw with some satisfaction that her eyes had darkened again, echoing her earlier appetite for him. She studied him intently as her chest rose and fell a bit faster—he could watch each breath dissipate in the cold air—effortlessly warming him in new ways, in achingly frustrating ways, sitting out here in the open, in a seedy parking lot. He reached for her under the table, his hand closing over her bare knee. Keeping his eyes on hers, he slid his fingers slowly up her thigh, just under the hem of her dress…far enough that she couldn't mistake his intent, not so far as to draw attention to them. She continued to stare him down, breathing through slightly parted lips, then she shivered. He felt the tremor all the way up her leg. _God damn._

Eyes still never leaving his face, she finally unwrapped her burger and bit into it, chewed methodically, swallowed. Again. After a minute, she shifted her leg even closer to him and said, "Aren't you hungry?" To put an exclamation point on this statement, she slid her heel-clad foot up his calf.

He swallowed his burger in about four bites, took a long draw from his soda, and said, "Ready to go?"

The car was in one piece, his young friend practically bouncing on the balls of his feet when he saw them approach. Michael lived up to his end of the deal, doling out another $50, then urging the kid to head home. They exited the parking lot and turned north toward Lincoln Park. Michael replaced his hand high on Sara's thigh, far less worried about discretion now that they were in the car. Her dress bunched up toward her lap, a visual he really didn't need right now, while driving. She answered with her own hand on his trousers, sliding it up, all the way up, to palm him with devastating accuracy through the fine wool blend weave of his suit pants. He released a hiss of breath, shifting in his seat.

"Distracted driving, you think?" he said through clenched teeth.

"I'm not distracted," she answered, her voice velvet, her fingers teasing with precision.

He exhaled on a groan, slightly concerned about his ability to merge onto the upcoming freeway. Then, in a burst of inspiration, he decided not to, swerving back to 63rd instead. Sara's hand momentarily stilled. "Where are you going?"

"I can't exactly walk through the door in the state you're putting me in," he told her, taking his hand from her leg long enough to lay it over hers, encouraging her to pick up where she'd left off. "I thought you weren't distracted," he reminded her.

She resumed her soft, methodical exploration of him with a low chuckle, but still craned her neck around to figure out where they were headed. Michael returned his hand to her thigh, sliding it up even higher this time, and felt her legs part, just slightly, for him. He wondered if she even knew she'd done it, and wondering this sent a rush of blood south, making him even harder than he'd already become, thanks to her touch. She stroked him with more pressure through his pants, leaning toward him to kiss his neck and jaw and ear. With another low groan, Michael pressed his foot harder to the gas. The diner Sara frequented with Katie flashed by, then the hospital, and he finally made a sharp turn into the dark parking lot of her clinic.

"Oh," Sara said, her hand stilling again. He had time to wonder what she thought of this plan, but not much: the second he turned off the engine and cut the lights, she scrambled awkwardly over the middle console to climb onto his lap.

He swore under his breath as she straddled him, nothing under that dress but the thin barrier of her silk underwear, nothing between him and the soft, willing heat of her but his trouser fabric and boxers. Then she was grinding slowly against the hard ridge of his erection, her mouth back on his. His hands went to her hips, holding her against him, dragging her across his body in a agonizing tease of friction that threatened to make him see stars. That damned dress had now ridden all the way up to somewhere above her waist.

He hissed another low curse. "Not. Here," he managed, tearing his face from hers. He scanned the deserted parking lot, eyeing the street traffic with its share of loiterers. Her clinic really was located in a shady part of town, especially at night. "Inside. You have your key card?"

She looked at him blankly for a moment, her eyes still registering a singular hunger that made his blood continue to sing, then nodded. "My purse," she murmured, her mouth back on his jaw.

He supposed it was up to him to fish it out of her bag, which involved dislodging her from his lap, which he was loathe to do. He hefted her off of him with a rough groan—it was a means to an end, he told himself—reached to curl his hand around the key card in the outside pocket of her bag, and pushed open his door. She met him at the front of the car and he scanned her body swiftly with his eyes—dress still seemed to be on, he noted with hazy relief—and took her hand, tugging her through the dark to where the clinic's security floodlight lit the entrance. He pressed the card into her palm, so he could click the car locked with one backward wave of his hand.

Inside the dark waiting room, Sara was on him again in an instant, her arms encircling his neck, drawing him back down to her. "Whoa," he said against her mouth, "door," and she twisted in his arms to flip the lock again clumsily with one hand. She kissed him fervently for another couple of minutes while Michael tried not to rip her dress off her next to the reception desk, then seemed to come slightly to her senses.

"What if someone comes by?" she panted, mouth against his collar, fingers tugging at his tie.

"No one will," he told her, using his most assertive, most unequivocal voice. "Party, remember?"

"But…someone might. Leave early."

He knew who 'someone' was, but shook his head. Dan wasn't going to come into work tonight, where he'd be reminded of Sara. Dan was going to go get drunk. "We're fine," he told her, steering her backward, down the hall toward her office and the exam rooms.

She let him guide her without argument, finally loosening the tie and working her way through his top two buttons, but when he pushed open the door of Exam 1 and tugged her through it, flipping the light on now that they were in the back of the building, she looked around her a little wildly. "I don't think I'll be able to…that I can…here," she told him, eying the exam table, the privacy screen, all the other all-too-familiar props of their past.

"Oh yes, you can," he countered, the words somehow both velvet and gravel against her skin as his mouth closed hotly on her throat. Because he was sure, very sure, of this, and he couldn't wait to help her. He lifted her up onto the exam table against the back wall, and her hands went from his shirt to his belt buckle, ridding him of it in seconds. He ran his hands back up her thighs, spreading them as he stood before her, pushing her dress back up out of his way to finally stroke the soaked strip of silk between her legs, her body heat nearly burning him. She threw her head back, eyes closed, her legs wrapping intuitively around his waist. _See?_ he wanted to tell her. _Told you you could do this._

Michael's mind start to narrow to a mantra of _yes, this, yes, now,_ moving against Sara in a desperate need to give her pleasure, to take the pleasure she was offering. They were both going to come just like this, still mostly clothed, if he didn't do something about it, and so he grasped her hips to slide her back, until her shoulders hit the wall. She fumbled with her underwear, her hands tangling with his, trying to tug this final barrier of fabric off her body, and he'd just hooked a finger around the elastic when a sudden screech sounded outside, followed by loud crash of metal on metal. The light he'd flipped on blinked oddly, then went out.

* * *

They both froze. Sara stared at Michael, blinking in the sudden darkness. Her brain told her, _something just happened. Do something!_ But her body lagged behind, still nearly boiling over with sexual energy, her pulse still on fire. "What…was that?"

"Car," he said, on a gasp of air, like he, too, was coming up from underwater, wading upward through desire. He spun his head toward the door, sliding his hands back down her thighs. "That was a car, hitting something outside. Probably the electric pole." He tugged her off the exam table, and she followed him through the darkness, feeling like she'd just been yanked, mid-course, from where she'd wanted to go into an entirely new direction.

Navigating the dark hallway, with its weak strips of safety lighting, only made her feel marginally less disoriented. By the time they reached the reception desk, she'd thought to tug her dress back down into a semblance of modesty; Michael had buttoned his pants, but they passed his tie on the floor on their way to the front door. Outside, a black SUV straddled the road and the parking lot at an angle, its front end smashed, as Michael had predicted, into the electric pole. A small crowd of onlookers had already gathered, pointing and yelling. A few other cars had stopped on the road, and Sara watched as a man from one of them ran up to the wreck, tugging open the driver's side door. A second later, he pulled someone out, struggling under the weight.

A young man. Teenager, maybe? Unconscious, by the look of him. The man held him awkwardly, trying to lay him onto the ground, and Sara flinched. _He shouldn't hold him that way,_ her brain yelled, but she hadn't spoken aloud. She just stood there, shivering, still reeling from their abrupt about-face in the clinic, her breath clouding on each exhale in the cold. Because the second she'd seen this kid, Sara had seen another: on a bicycle, on the street, her head swimming, her knees sinking to feel the bite of concrete and slush before being dragged away, because she'd been useless. _Useless._

She would not be, tonight. She ran forward in a sudden burst of clarity, hearing Michael call to her but not looking back. She pushed past more people who had collected around the scene, falling to her knees by the victim. The boy was probably sixteen or seventeen, bleeding from a contusion on his forehead, but breathing, his face bloody from both the impact and multiple lacerations from the broken windshield.

"I'm a doctor," she told the Good Samaritan, who looked relieved at this news. She told him to call 911 but someone else already had, so she gave him the task of keeping the kid's neck and spine steady as she took a pulse. It was too fast, his BP too low, and that worried her, but now that she was here, on the frozen asphalt, _doing_ something, her brain felt mercifully clearer. She asked for light—cell phone, anything?—then found the source of the teen's bleeding at the side of his skull…bad, maybe even cracked, but not shattered. She heard the peal of a siren as the ambulance navigated the short distance from the hospital, and by the time she'd begun palpating the kid's abdomen, she saw the red and blue lights wash across his face.

She explained her presence and credentials to the lead paramedic, relaying vitals, then decided she'd better just come with them, climbing into the back of the ambulance with the victim. The low blood pressure had her worried about internal bleeding. She saw Michael, who tried to thrust her jacket at her, but she refused it; her hands and dress were already bloody. Why ruin a favorite coat, too?

"Meet you over there," she called to him, before the ambulance doors slammed shut. An EMT handed her a medi-wipe for her hands and arms, which she used to clean off most of the kid's blood; treating the boy gloveless had been unavoidable tonight, but unfortunate. When they arrived, she realized she knew the attending ER physician from narcotic emergencies at the clinic, and she left the kid in his hands, repeating the vitals to him and relaying her worry about internal injuries. He nodded, urging her to get to BFE.

She begged an extra set of scrubs from the nurses' station, and at the Body Fluid Exposure station, stripped herself down behind the shower curtain, vigorously scrubbing her arms, hands and legs for the required fifteen minutes. The water was only lukewarm, and she shivered under the spray. Had it really only been a matter of minutes ago she'd been overheated and half-naked with Michael in the clinic? It seemed like a lifetime ago. When she'd gone through each step of the BFE process, she pulled on the scrubs, bagged her clothes, then remembered she only had her heels to wear on her feet. She found a pair of surgical booties and wore those; they were far more comfortable, anyway. Tugging her damp hair up into a messy bun, she went in search of Michael.

The ER physician found her first. "Good call on the internal bleeding," he told her. "Ruptured spleen. He's in surgery now."

"I'm glad," she told him. She looked around her at the controlled chaos of the ER. She didn't miss it, but when the physician said, "I guess we'll see less of you, once you're in the director's office at the clinic," she felt a little pang of regret. This place might be a circus, but she disliked the idea of being stuck behind a desk.

"I plan to be the hands-on director type," she assured him, as Michael found them.

He smiled at her somewhat oddly, and when they turned to leave, and she reached for her coat more willingly—she wore absolutely nothing under these scrubs, after all—he seemed reluctant to hand it over.

"What?"

"Just…enjoying this look," he told her with a slow grin, handing her the coat.

"You are truly hopeless, you know that?"

"Unchallenged," he agreed easily. He slid her another look before she could wrap the coat around herself, and took her hand as they walked across the parking lot. "What a night," he observed.

"Yeah." She looked up at the black sky, starting to spit snow, and then back down at her paper boot-clad feet, which were now freezing. "It felt good though, being able to help."

Michael nodded. "You were amazing." He nudged her. " _Highly_ inconvenient timing though," he added.

She smiled, but knew he'd missed her point. When they got in the car, she touched his hand, stopping him from turning the engine over right away.

"I don't think I ever told you," she began, kind of startled by this realization, then took him through that December night so long ago, when she'd been too high to walk straight, let alone help the boy on the bike. She spoke haltingly, not allowing herself to gloss over anything. It felt a little like speaking in Group, only, here in the quiet car, there was nothing anonymous about it. When she was finished, he looked at her with the customary intensity she'd come to know so well, that she wasn't sure she could live without, anymore. He kissed her softly, then less softly, in the dark car, his lithe fingers toying with the rough cotton of the scrubs. She wanted to ask what he was thinking, what this part of her past made him feel, but that would require pulling away from him, willingly denying herself his warmth and touch and love. So really, didn't she already have her answer? She decided to simply keep kissing him, until… _wait._

"What time is it?" They'd told Ellie they'd be home by 11 pm.

"Almost midnight, but I already called home," Michael assured her, his mouth near her ear. "Ellie's staying the night in the guest room."

She had some stuff stashed in the closet and guest bathroom there, for the few times she needed to stay over when Michael left town. "What about the clinic? Did you lock it back up?"

"Yep." He dug her key card out of his pocket and handed it to her.

She bent her face back to his to kiss him more, then thought of one more thing: "Your tie. It was on the floor of the reception area."

He looked at her blankly. "Whoops."

"We have to go back," she informed him. She didn't want to be answering questions about that tie on Monday morning.

She got no argument from Michael. He turned the car over with a grin. "Well, if we have to go back, I guess we have to go back," he told her, and she noted with a quick thrill that his voice had instantly turned to velvet again. Would they ever stop acting like sex-starved teenagers? And more to the point, could she really go from 100 mph to zero back to 100 again? And then _again?_ He gave her a wink, his free hand already back on her knee, and she had her answer. She slid him a look of approval and he hit the gas, taking the exit out of the parking lot at a completely irresponsible speed.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter picks up right where Chapter 7 left off, though I guess that's obvious. :) NSFW. I was going to wait to post this chapter, even though it's been written for a while, but decided to send it out on the heels of the last, since they go together pretty well.**

Michael felt convinced Christmas had just come early. He'd found his tie on the floor of the clinic in the dark (the power hadn't been restored), and then had found the drawstring on Sara's cotton pants, then his hands had found their way under the top of her borrowed scrubs. They hadn't made it as far as the exam room this time, stopping short at Sara's office door before Michael pushed her through it.

She leaned against her desk now, softly crying out as he cupped and kneaded her under the baggy shirt.

"You didn't tell me you had to strip yourself of _all_ your clothes in BFE," he muttered, forcing himself to be more gentle. Her lack of undergarments had been quite the discovery.

"Can't be too careful," she insisted, trying to free him of his pants for the third time this evening. "Anyway, I thought it might help to expedite things…streamline our…process."

"Very efficient of you," he told her. "I don't think I can take another…disappoint…" She'd slid her hands into his pants, under his boxers, and he found himself rendered speechless. He kissed her hard, since his thoughts had scattered, then tugged her hair free from the knot on her head. He wanted to run his fingers through it, especially while she still wore those scrubs. She had been right, earlier: he was hopeless when it came to reminders of their past in the infirmary.

He let her stroke him until he thought he would fly apart, then grasped her by the waist and hefted her up to sit on her desk.

"Wait, let me just…" she said breathlessly, pushing her keyboard out of the way, lifting her butt up so he could slide the scrub pants down over her thighs.

He tugged them all the way down and off, making a mental note to pick _these_ up off the floor before they left as well. He ran his hands up her inner thighs as he had earlier in the evening, reveling in the wet heat of her against his fingers as he parted her. The scent of her arousal hit his senses, arousal he knew had been denied too many times tonight, and suddenly, he wanted to taste her so badly, it felt vital. He sank into her desk chair before her, his blood singing with this carnal need, and when he opened his mouth against her, he didn't tease, didn't just taste…he consumed.

Sara moaned roughly, her body bucking against him, her hands raising to the top of his head, as though to hold him there to her. _"Fin-al-ly,"_ she practically sobbed, and in some corner of Michael's mind, this was funny, this uncharacteristically wanton reaction, but a much bigger part of his mind, far and away the dominate part, was obsessed with devouring her, with finding that essential spot to stroke his tongue against to make her weep with pleasure.

She squirmed against him as his tongue made circuitous paths, again, and again, and when he knew she was close, he slid one hand between her bare skin and the desk, so he could press his thumb against her, with just enough pressure to…yes. That. There. She cried out, her body spasming around his hand and tongue, her muscles constricting violently as he swallowed her release. She gasped his name as she came down from it, and he kissed her heated flesh, tasting her one more time.

Her hands returned to his pants to tug them off, and he practically crawled up her body, giving her far too little time to recover before drawing her roughly to him. She didn't seem to mind, and though he entered her without much warning, she didn't need it, meeting his first deep thrust with an equally intense rock of her hips. ' _Finally' was right._

He tried to move in her with some semblance of control, though he felt their rhythm running away from him almost immediately. He held her face in his hands, looking at her intently, her eyes his focal point as they sped faster, harder. He watched the intriguing color on her cheeks until it bloomed to a darker flush and she lowered her gaze, breaking their contact. _Now_ she felt shy, after her enthusiasm as he'd practically inhaled her? He smiled at her.

"What?" She grasped his shoulders, bring him closer to her, rocking into him with more urgency. This encouragement brought him dangerously close, so close he welcomed the distraction of conversation, such as it was.

"Nothing," he breathed, running his hands back up under her shirt to stroke her bare breasts, his thumbs rolling over her nipples in a soft glide of sensation for both their benefit. He placed his mouth to her ear. "I love you," he told her. "That's all."

"That's all?"

He nipped her earlobe with his teeth. "I _mean_ , that's all I was thinking." He smiled again, though through a clenched jaw. "That and, hurry."

"Hurry?" She raised her eyebrows at this uncustomary request. "You're always…such a…gentleman." She grasped his hips, spurring him on, which did nothing for his patience.

"Hurry," he growled at her, "because I want…you...to…" And then Sara arched her body, opening herself even deeper to him and he ended on "Oh… _fuck._ " He came on a momentous release, pouring himself into her even while he flexed every muscle in his body against it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

* * *

Sara leaned heavily into his shoulder, still breathing hard, backing slowly off an acutely frustrating cliff of _almost-there_. No big deal: knowing she'd just made Michael feel _very_ good, despite the look of misery on his face, gratified her.

"Tonight has been…tonight nearly killed me," he apologized again.

No kidding…they'd been flirting and teasing one another since early afternoon. Today had been a sexual marathon, with too many detours. She ran her fingers lightly over his neck. "You know," she ventured, "if it's not mind blowing every single time, that's okay."

He shook his head vigorously at this blasphemy. "But your satisfaction is of upmost importance to me."

She tried not to laugh at this statement, really she did. But she failed, because… " _'My satisfaction is of upmost importance?'_ Am _I_ being serviced in this scenario, or my car?"

He was silent for a beat. "See, now I wonder if you're just making fun of me."

"No need to wonder." She planted a kiss to his neck, smiling against his skin. He continued to pout, so she said, "Is there a satisfaction survey I can fill out? Maybe that would help. Where 10 is extremely satisfied, and a 1 is never—"

"Hey, now," he protested, though when he looked up at her, his face was still a study of self-judgement. "Your memory is very short. You were 'extremely satisfied' just a few minutes ago. I'm sure of it."

She pretended to have to work hard to recall this. "Yes, I do remember something like that." She kissed him again. "All joking aside, Michael, it's okay."

She moved away from him, sliding off the desk to retrieve her pants from the floor and pull them on. "Take me home?" she asked, wrapping her arms back around his torso. "I don't think I've ever been so tired."

They didn't pull back into their driveway until almost 2 am, entering the house as quietly as they could, tip-toeing up the stairs like they were sneaking in past their parents. Sara checked on the kids, plus on Ellie, who'd fallen asleep in the guest room, then nearly collapsed in bed, still in the scrubs. The next thing she knew, weak daylight slanted through their bedroom window, and voices drifted up from the kitchen. From the sound of things, the kids were helping cook breakfast.

She decided to assume Michael had things under control, opting for a hot shower. Stripping naked, she noticed a few scrapes on her knees from kneeling in her dress in the parking lot last night, and when the water hit her body, she turned her back to it, her breasts and belly uncomfortably sensitive to the pressure of the spray. She hadn't remembered any aspect of their tumble in the clinic being particularly rough, but in their desperation for each other, they must have been.

She headed downstairs in her robe, combing her fingers through her wet hair. In their big kitchen, Mike carefully cracked eggs into a bowl while Henry hovered, standing precariously on a chair pushed up to the counter, trying to hand his brother the raw eggs one at a time. _What could go wrong?_ Sara thought with a smile.

Michael leaned against the kitchen island, coffee in hand. "Supervising?" she asked, heading straight for the coffee machine. When she reached it, however, she realized she wasn't in the mood. She glanced at Ellie, at the table, already dressed and eating a bagel, and offered to top her cup off instead, apologizing again for keeping her here overnight.

"Are you kidding?" Ellie said. "I got a break from my loud roommates. That upstairs bedroom is seriously like paradise."

Sara laughed. "Well, good."

At the counter, Henry had become dissatisfied with his job in the egg cracking production line, and was now trying to reach across Mike to 'do it hisself'. Ellie glanced over, starting to rise, but Sara said swiftly, "You're officially off-duty." She left her with the coffee carafe and snagged Henry, who'd climbed onto the counter top to better access the bowl of cracked eggs. She kissed his disgruntled face while he squirmed in her arms until he grinned.

"Dad says you guys had a super exciting night," Mike told her, to which she raised a discrete eyebrow in Michael's direction.

"I was regaling them with tales of your heroism," he intoned dryly, raising his eyebrow back at her.

"Was the kid super hurt?" Mike asked.

"He was hurt, yes, but he's going to be okay," Sara assured him.

"If you're a doctor, do you _have_ to help when someone needs it, even when you're not at work?"

Sara focused her concentration on untangling Henry's hands from her hair, unsure whether she could look her elder son in the eye. "If you feel you can, yes," she told Mike.

"Well, _you_ can, of course," he said assuredly, finishing up with the eggs. She studied Henry's fingers in hers, still unable to look up, willing the sudden tears that had sprung into her eyes to recede.

"Of course," she heard Michael echo, reaching toward her to relieve her of Henry. His lips brushed her cheek; Michael missed nothing. "But enough questions for Mom. Want me to show you how to scramble those?"

* * *

As the holiday season geared into full swing, Michael put Mike in charge of 'new traditions'. He knew change was tough for their eldest, and that despite his smooth transition at Sable, he would miss aspects of his past holidays in Ithaca this year. He had a visit from Dylan to look forward to during the New Year's party, and could count on their annual trip to Mexico, but everything else about this first Christmas in Chicago would be Mike's least favorite thing…new.

"You decide," Michael told him, spreading the calendar section of the Tribune out in front of him, where four pages of holiday events awaited his perusal. Mike took his holiday duties seriously, creating detailed schedules and adding alerts to their phones. They went ice skating at Millennium Park, stopping afterward to catch the reflected snowfall in mirrored sides of the Bean; they drove through the holiday lights at Logan Square; they made a trip to Springfield to see the rose garden and capitol decorated for the holidays. But the vast majority of the activities Mike chose revolved around Henry catching a glimpse of his favorite aspect of Christmas, by far…Santa.

Michael delighted in this developmental milestone. Last year, Henry had been too young to understand the concept of Santa Claus, and by the time Michael had re-entered Mike's life at age six, he had already been wise to the myth.

"I tried to keep it going," Sara had insisted, "but the logic just didn't add up for him. You can imagine the questions he had. By the time he was _four,_ he looked at me like, 'Why is my mother lying to me?' I just couldn't do it."

Henry, however, at age two and a half, was _all in_ , taking extreme delight in all things Santa Claus. The joy this brought to Michael was profound. Even Sara's natural cynicism was no match. "Do you find it alarming that we're hoping our own child is fooled by a preposterous story that costs us a great deal of time and money?" she asked him.

He called her a grinch.

Henry didn't seem to mind that there were many Santas, all over the city, or that he was required to wait in lines, normally a deal-breaker for his two-year-old level of patience. He waited solemnly, his hand tucked carefully in Mike's, and this sight alone threatened to bring Michael to tears. Henry made Mike take an audience with each Santa too, and despite his non-believer status, he dutifully recited his wish list for his brother's benefit (a second blow to Michael's overtaxed heart). When each Santa turned to Henry to hear _his_ list, all he ever said was, 'I want what Mi wants."

"What _should_ we get Henry? For real?" Mike asked him and Sara, after yet another Santa was made aware of Henry's undying admiration for his big brother.

"Maybe a Mike doll," Michael suggested with a grin. "He could just drag it around with him all day long."

"Creepy," Mike laughed.

"Or a big Mike poster for his room, right over his bed," Sara suggested.

They tried to feed Henry suggestions appropriate for a two-year-old boy, but he remained firm: what Mike asked for, Henry asked for. This put Michael in a quandary: Henry didn't need duplicate Mike-gifts, but if he didn't receive them, his Santa belief would threatened. That danger alone had Michael buying two telescopes, two pairs of soccer cleats, two of everything he kept discovering online. In a moment of inspiration, he decided to buy two of everything he thought _Henry_ might like as well…they could regift Mike's unneeded toddler toys later.

"What are you _doing_?" Sara asked him in alarm, peering over his shoulder at his Amazon cart on his laptop screen. "Are you crazy?"

He explained his Santa reasoning again, but even though his gifting strategy was sound, this fell on deaf ears.

"You spoil them both rotten," she told him. "There is no way we're spending that much on Christmas gifts."

He glanced at his cart total, which, now that he looked at it, was getting a bit steep, then back up at Sara to discover she looked _very_ firm on this. "Henry can have one duplicate Mike-gift," she informed him, taking over the computer to scroll through the contents of his cart. "Unbelievable!" she added, when she had to keep scrolling, and scrolling, to reach the end. "The soccer cleats. Get him those. They're even the same color. The rest, nope. No way."

His face must have screamed 'grinch' again, because she sighed, and spoke more calmly. "Michael. Giving Henry and Mike such excess doesn't…I don't know…even things out, from the past."

"I'm not trying to—"

"Yes, you are," she said, more softly. "And I understand why, but we'll be opening gifts until midnight if you buy all that." She thought of something, and suddenly redirected her argument. "You know what? Go ahead and buy it all, but take it down the DHS building to John at the foster program office."

The man they'd met at the party, Michael recalled. He'd actually been working pretty hard _not_ to remember John's tired face, his tales of woe Michael knew all too well were painfully accurate. But…he looked back at his Amazon cart, and exhaled. He wasn't ready to admit it quite yet, but Sara was right.

* * *

"I think I'm going to have to get the UPS guy a gift, we see him so often these days," Sara complained to Katie at their next lunch date.

Katie just laughed at her. "For the record, your complaint is that your husband spends his hard-earned money buying too many thoughtful gifts for you and your children…do I have that right?"

"Okay," Sara conceded, "it's a first-world problem, I'll grant you that." Why _was_ she being such a Scrooge? She seemed to have a short fuse these days. It didn't help that she'd continued to feel achy off and on, plus overheated. Right now, for instance, it was much too warm in the diner. She shrugged out of her sweater. "Is it hot in here?"

Katie shook her head. "But you're not wrong," she granted, circling back to their conversation. "No child needs a copious amount of toys." She paused, eyeing her soup for a moment. "Michael seems like the type to feel compelled to make things right, to straighten out wrongs…maybe he still thinks he has seven years to make up for?" She glanced at Sara hesitantly; Katie never ventured any direct opinion on her relationship. "Please don't let me overstep," she added in a rush.

But Sara felt oddly pleased that Katie felt comfortable expressing this. "We're friends, Katie. I _want_ to hear your thoughts. And you're definitely right," she agreed. "I just don't know what to do about it."

"Have you thought about volunteering somewhere as a family? Maybe at the toy drive Michael's donating to?"

That was a good idea, Sara decided. She knew Michael had mixed feelings about the foster care system, but maybe if he got more involved here in Chicago, gave back, as it were, he'd eventually feel like he'd paid whatever imagined debt he carried with him. After all, she and the kids didn't have to be the sole beneficiaries.

She nodded. "Thanks, Katie. I'll look into it."

Katie eyed her for a beat. "You feeling okay? You look flushed."

She apologized. "I still feel too warm," she said, looking down at her untouched lunch. "I can only hope it's some weird hormonal thing, because it keeps happening, and I really don't have time to be sick right now."

Katie commiserated, then tacked on, "Although…" Then she kind of paused awkwardly.

This irritated Sara, who'd just embraced their hard-won transparency with one another. "What? Out with it."

"I was just going to say, I mean, the last time you felt like this, you thought you were pregnant, remember?"

Sara frowned. "'Thought' being the key word," she said shortly. She wished she hadn't pressed Katie; she didn't like talking about the pregnancy scare last month. It still felt too fresh, and she didn't know quite how she felt about its double punch of regret and relief. Katie was still studying at her when she looked up from picking apart her sandwich, so she snapped, "I'm not. I can't be."

"Can't be?"

"Shouldn't be. And therefore, won't be." She swallowed a dry bite of bread, realizing she sounded bitter, and added quietly, "He made sure of that."

"Oh," Katie said, equally quietly, and, Sara thought later, it was a testament to her friend's general decent nature that she didn't take offense at the tone Sara had taken in the course of this conversation. "I didn't know that."

"The thing is," Sara heard herself say, "the vasectomy was probably the only logical course of action, but he didn't really ask me. Not exactly, anyway." She found she was suddenly dangerously close to crying. Either her hormones were indeed out of whack, or the 'regret' half of that regret-relief combo was actually much larger than she'd allowed herself to admit. "One day we were discussing options, agreeing to do _something_ , and the next, boom. Done."

She couldn't believe she was telling Katie all this, across the Formica tabletop of the diner, no less. It was unfair to Michael, disloyal, even, but at the same time, articulating this aloud felt very overdue, like purging herself of something that had festered, unbeknownst even to herself, for weeks. They should have talked with Dr. Kate about all this before acting, she realized now. She shouldn't have let Michael react out of fear. Though, he hadn't exactly 'let' her have much say.

Katie said carefully, "I'm sorry, Sara." She clearly didn't know which direction to head in this conversation. "Did you—do you—want another…?"

"I don't know," Sara said, then added swiftly, without actually giving herself permission to do so: "Actually, yes. Yes, I _do."_ She wanted one more baby very much, she realized with a sinking heart. She'd managed to convince herself she _shouldn't_ want this, then that she _couldn't_ , but apparently, knowing these things had done nothing to dislodge the wanting. "But…that doesn't matter now."

It sure felt like it mattered, and Sara was pretty sure Katie was thinking the same thing. She was startled to realize she wasn't just sad or regretful…she was _angry_ about this…really, actually angry. She'd had no idea. "But, wow," she said self-consciously now, because Katie hadn't spoken. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…go into all that. I shouldn't have."

She actually felt a little ill now. Michael had a hard enough time rising above people's preconceived notions of him without Sara airing dirty laundry. It may not be fair to her, but it was a fact: she couldn't blow off steam about her husband to a friend, like most women could. Not when her husband was Michael, and this entire city remembered only one version of him. And Katie was Ellies aunt, for god's sake.

"You're hurting, it's okay." She touched Sara's hand lightly. "And you're probably coming down with something, like you said. It's always harder to think through things when you're sick."

This was generous of Katie, and Sara accepted her words gratefully. "That's probably it," she agreed. They parted ways on the sidewalk by the parking lot, with promises to meet up early in the new year. (Sara had tried to convince Katie to come to their party, but understood when she'd admitted that the prospect of seeing other members of the Fox River Eight proved too intimidating.) Before Sara could escape to her car, however, Katie boldly pulled her into a tight hug.

"You can always talk to me," she told her. "And anything you want to say will stay just between the two of us, you know that, right?" She pulled back and looked at Sara. "I've always kept your secrets, girl. Well," she hedged, "barring a court order."

Sara laughed despite herself. "Fair enough."

* * *

Michael had one last job to close out before the end of the year. It was an interesting one, for an elite liberal arts college in Massachusetts seeking to tie their building security into their traditional student honor code…a sort of high tech psychological security system. The job required a good deal of research, but Michael had time on his hands: Sara had gone to bed early the past two nights, trying to fight off what she thought was a virus. He requested as many documents as he could from various agencies who'd done this sort of work, then studied in their library until the early morning hours.

The third morning, he brought an earmarked trade journal to the table at breakfast to show Sara. "Look who's been freelancing in his retirement years," he told her, turning to an article on the benefits of honor codes utilized in the penal system.

"Henry Pope?" she said, glancing at it briefly while reaching for Henry's milk cup. He looked at her carefully. He knew she felt under the weather, but she seemed a bit distant, too.

"He's in Psychology Today, as well." He slid a second article to her so she could read it over coffee. Then he realized she wasn't drinking any, and poured her a cup.

"Thanks," she said distractedly, like she hadn't noticed the absence of coffee until now. "This is great," she noted a few minutes later, after reading silently. Michael agreed. In the article, Pope propositioned a detailed honor code system to the DOC, with the intent of building rapport and trust among inmates in minimum security institutions, to be presented at the next meeting of the Illinois state legislature.

"I thought I'd ask him to come by tonight, see if he'd be willing to discuss it with me." He looked to Sara for her thoughts on this. What he really wanted to know: did she think he'd come? She knew Michael hired consultants from time to time as needed, but he'd never considered the possibility of collaborating professionally with Pope.

Sara smiled at him, which quieted the slightly nagging concern he felt about the distance she'd put between them the past few days. "I think that's a great idea. I'll be home early, so I'll make dinner and let you talk."

That evening, Sara was true to her word, home in plenty of time to take over domestic duties, which told Michael she'd made special effort on his behalf…in the past three years, he'd learned timeliness wasn't exactly her strong suit. He appreciated it, and wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he simply kissed her in thanks and went about busying himself pacing nervously, awaiting Henry's arrival. _His_ Henry used this time to try to scale the Christmas tree, which kept Michael at least somewhat busy. (He knew Sara _tried_ to keep him out of Michael's way, but really, only so much could be done, when it came to their youngest.) By the time Henry (senior) arrived, Michael had given up, gripping his son in what amounted to a football hold.

They greeted Henry at the door together, and the older man said cheerily, "There he is, the man himself," when he saw his young namesake.

Henry looked up at Pope and said, almost cautiously, "Santa?"

"Henry, no!" Michael corrected. "He thinks everyone is Santa Claus these days," Michael added swiftly, but Pope just laughed as Michael called a bit desperately, "Sara?!"

She came for Henry, reaching for him with an apology and a quick hello to Pope. He smiled at her, too. "He's a handful, huh?" he asked Michael.

Michael just nodded. "So I'm told." He didn't feel like reminding Henry that he hadn't been there to experience Mike at age two, for a comparison. He showed him into the library, asking, "Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Scotch?"

Henry's eyes lit up at the last suggestion, and Michael went to the sideboard at the end of the library, to the cabinet out of reach of the children. "Ah, the secret stash," Pope said appreciatively.

Michael smiled, but it certainly wasn't like that. Sara was well aware of what was stocked in the house, where, and why. This 'stash' was for the purpose of meetings like tonight, when Michael, and now Sucre, hosted consultants and clients from time to time. Michael poured them both a fifth, then sat down in the leather chair opposite Henry.

He asked him about his work with the use of honor codes in minimum security incarceration, then said, "If you're willing to discuss it further, I'd like to draw up a consultant contract and pick your brain."

"A consultant contract?" Henry repeated, chuckling.

Michael instantly felt like a needy kid, trying to please a patronizing parent. Since he didn't enjoy this feeling, he opted for an air of smooth confidence. "It's pretty standard," he told Pope. "I pay consultant fees all the time." His lip twitched with amusement. "You're nothing special."

Henry appreciated this, laughing loudly enough to bring (little) Henry back into the doorway. Michael needed only to raise his eyebrows at him to send him departing swiftly. "He lives in fear of Santa these days," he told Henry. "It's very convenient."

"You're shameless," Pope said, then sobered. "I didn't mean anything by that."

Michael set down his drink. Henry seemed friendly, but guarded, and both of them were dancing around each other. It wasn't a fun way to converse, or to do business. "Listen Henry. It's just the two of us. Our wives aren't here. We're not making nice around a dinner table. We can be real with each other." He took a breath. "You know I admire you. What's more, I've always liked you, and I think you've always liked me, with maybe a few moments of exception." He offered him an apologetic smile. "We can do this the hard way, if you want, with lots of posturing and one-upmanship, but I'd rather do it the easy way, for the record."

Henry studied him for a beat, then said, "I never got to be a father. Biologically-speaking, yes, but in practice…I wasn't given the chance, wasn't up for the chance, I'm not sure which, at this point. But I do know one thing. Had I been a father, in the true sense of the word, I'd have been proud if my son had been anything like you."

Michael stared at him, his scotch untouched in his hands.

"I knew that, within days of meeting you, in Fox River," Pope continued. "What a sad commentary on the state of penal affairs _that_ is." He took a swig of his drink and looked at Michael directly. "So ask away, and I'm happy to impart any lingering knowledge from this old brain. But I'd rather leave your consultant fee out of it, if it's all the same to you."

Michael swallowed hard. "I can do that," he said. And they talked penal reform and rehabilitation for two hours straight, even after Michael knew Sara and the kids had eaten, even after she'd poked her head into the library to offer to bring them a bite. They talked until the kids' bedtime, always a somewhat loud affair during which baths were drawn and instructions were metted out, at which time Pope said, "Wait, wait…I have something for them, in the car."

Michael waited curiously while he received said something, then called to Sara to bring the kids back downstairs, so Henry could present them both with a festively wrapped gift. "You didn't have to do this," he said weakly, as his boys enthusiastically ripped open toys.

Henry waved this away. "Oh you know, this is Judy's doing," he insisted. "Always thinking of everything." He smiled as Mike and Henry both thanked him. "But she'll be pleased," he said softly, "to hear they liked them."

Sara threw Michael a look that appeared a lot like, _I'm going to start bawling, if this keeps up_ , so he quickly directly the kids back upstairs, thanking Henry for his time. "I hope we can do it again soon," Michael said, "just for the fun of it."

Henry beamed at him, a look Michael certainly hadn't been privy to before. "I'd like that."

He didn't bother inviting him to their New Year party; Henry Pope didn't want to ring in the new year with the likes of C-Note and Alex Mahone. But he did suggest dinner for the week after, Judy too, of course. Henry quickly accepted.

When the door had closed behind him, Michael turned to see Sara back downstairs. "Well?" she said, obviously curious to learn how it went.

He smiled at her. "I think we'll see more of him," he said cautiously. He glanced at her. "Are you feeling better?"

She looked noncommittal about this, but nodded after a moment. "I'm fine," she told him.

* * *

Christmas morning dawned clear and bright and _way_ too early. With Henry wise to the Santa game, the household was up at dawn, Sara and Michael following two very enthusiastic children downstairs. "Isn't this great?" Michael asked her, as they watched the kids fall in reverence at the base of the brightly lit tree.

It was a rhetorical question, but Sara couldn't resist answering, "It would be just a great two hours from now." She grinned at him in her pajamas, trying to subdue her hair into a semblance of respectability at the top of her head, and he looked at her long and hard, in that way of his that always made her stomach flip deliciously. She couldn't stay mad at him, especially for no reason, especially with her own emotions too jumbled to make sense of anyway. It was Christmas, and Christmas wasn't a time of year in which Sara had ever been accustomed to feeling fully happy, anyway. She always missed her parents, for years she'd desperately missed Michael, and now, this? This was as close to perfect as she was going to get, so she pushed any lingering pain about babies she wouldn't have out of her head and enjoyed the morning with the ones Michael had already given her.

Mike beamed with genuine joy at each gift they (okay, mostly Michael) had wrapped for him, and Henry yelled in delight at the sight of the soccer shoes that matched his brother's, proof that Santa had listened to his requests. They were both so easily pleased, really, that at one point, Sara nudged Michael, reminding him that it had been a good decision to re-gift half the contents of his Amazon cart.

"I don't want spoiled kids," he agreed, as they watched the boys' excitement. "I just…I can't bear the idea that they might need something—anything—and not have it."

"I know," she told him. "But look at them," she challenged him. "They have everything."

And they did: they had both their parents, for one thing, and they had each other. Mike was generous with Henry all morning, allowing him to sit close to him, study his new toys, admire each and every move Mike made. And Henry brought Mike true pleasure, Sara could tell: he enjoyed the way Henry looked up to him and took pride in helping him with Christmas morning tasks, gamely installing battery packs and setting up remote controls and ridding new toys of too much packaging.

Mid-morning, Michael made a big breakfast, and Lincoln came over with Sheba, who had been MIA for a while, but seemed to be back in the picture now; Sara made a mental note to ask about this discretely later. LJ arrived shortly thereafter, with his girlfriend, now his fiancé…he'd finally proposed the night before. Sara unearthed some sparkling cider so they could all toast this development before Mike could monopolize LJ, grabbing his hand to show him his new stuff, most of which he'd already set up in his room, to close the door against Henry's heavy hand when the situation warranted it.

By mid-afternoon, they were all spent. "Is it bedtime, yet?" Lincoln asked, to which Sara rolled her eyes…she had it on good authority that he'd slept in until 9 am today. But she couldn't argue; her own eyes were closing of their own accord as she 'rested' on the couch, 'watching' Henry set up his new train track with Mike's assistance. The boys hadn't ever gotten out of pajamas today, and now, she kind of wished she still wore hers, too.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up with their wool throw pulled over her, Henry napping at her side. Rising slowly, so as not to disturb him, she found everyone else in the kitchen, playing cards. Mike sat beside Michael, gamely learning the finer points of five card draw.

"Mom's awake," he said happily, when she entered, and she smiled at him, moving around the table to get a glass of water.

"You were out cold," Michael said, watching her navigate around the chairs to the sink. "There's coffee."

Coffee sounded unappealing, as did the plate of gingerbread cookies on the table. When she said as much, Lincoln quipped, "So picky. What are you, knocked up again?"

She spun on him, shooting him a hard look. Mike sat _right_ there. "Of course not," she told him swiftly. _Not that it was any of his business._

Linc caught her annoyance and mumbled, "Oh, he doesn't know what I'm saying."

"He knows everything," she shot back under her breath, as, predictably, Mike asked with piqued curiosity, "Are you?"

"No, baby." The nickname felt ironic on her tongue, and she wished she could recall it. She got her water and retreated, heading upstairs. Maybe she could attempt to straighten up the kids' rooms of post-holiday clutter.

She hadn't made it down the upstairs hallway, however, before Michael came up behind her. He stopped her in the doorway to their bedroom, his face a mask she couldn't read. "Are you?" he asked her soberly.

 _"No,"_ she told him, too sharply. "Why does everyone keep asking that?" Didn't they realize? It stung, like opening a raw wound, every time.

She walked into their room, forgetting she'd meant to visit the kids' rooms instead, and sat down heavily on the bed. Her head ached, and now that she thought about it, her breasts did, too, again, like they'd gotten heavier and more tender in just days. Somewhere in her brain, this realization sent off alarm bells, but the more rational part shut it down. She _couldn't_ be, so why feel disappointment unnecessarily?

Michael followed her. "You've been so tired," he rationalized. "And feverish. I know you've thought you were sick, but I've noticed that you've been—"

"Don't, Michael," she commanded, because her hopes rose further with his words, coupled with a fear so real, she could feel it tingling at the back of her neck. Not a fear for herself, her health…a fear of how Michael would react, if this were true. _Which it isn't_ , she reminded herself brutally.

"Why?" he asked her softly. "Why won't you talk about this?"

It felt impossible to explain this to him. "Because…it's Christmas. Just…don't make me sad."

This wasn't the right thing to say, if she wanted him to leave her alone. Which of course she didn't, not really. He sat down beside her and curled a hand around her shoulder, drawing her softly against him. "Why would you be sad?" he asked her.

She felt her defenses crumbling to dust at her feet. "Because Michael…I want one more baby so badly," she admitted very quietly, into his shirt, "and I don't get one." She flinched; she sounded like Henry earlier today, wanting a third candy cane.

But oddly, Michael didn't freak out the way she'd anticipated, at this admission. His hand, curled around her, rubbed slowly up and down her arm. "Well," he said very softly, uncharacteristically calmly, "I think maybe, you _are_ going to get one."

She pulled back to look at him. "I can't…you know that." _And it's your fault,_ she added irrationally, in her head. She felt the swell of anger she'd experienced at lunch with Katie return. It coupled with the sharp kick of hope, creating a confusing cloud of emotion around her.

He continued to hold her against him, his hand still softly stroking her skin. She wasn't sure whether the caress was meant to soothe her or him. "I've seen you newly pregnant twice, sweetheart," he told her, still in that extremely soft tone. "You're pregnant now."

The hope-anger grew. "I'm not. I thought that before, and I wasn't." _She wasn't._ Not to mention he'd undergone a certain medical procedure. Had everyone seemed to forget that?

"Can we find out?" he asked her. "Will you indulge me that?"

"You had a vasectomy," she said through clenched teeth. "And you don't want…don't…" Saying it was too painful. It hurt straight to her soul.

"That's not true," he told her firmly. Earnestly. "I can want this just as badly as you do, and still feel terrified."

This was the most rational statement Michael had made on this subject, and it heartened her. But still: "We can talk about it all we want, but it's not possible."

"Well," he said simply, "Apparently it is. Especially at first, in the first few months."

"The odds are like 1000 to 1." She clung stubbornly to this, because if she let the hope free rein, she'd be crushed.

"You're going to talk to me about odds?" he smiled. He kissed her gently, and when she looked at him, he really did seem calm. "We always beat the odds, Sara."

"You really want this?"

He nodded. "I let my fear make my decisions for me before," he said, "and thank God it was a false alarm and thank God you don't listen to me. The vasectomy felt like the only way to make the fear stop. I'm sorry."

She nodded. "I know."

"And _I_ know you're tired and overheated and nauseous and achy."

"I'm not really very ach—"

"Yes you are." He brushed his fingers lightly over the swell of one breast. "I notice. I bet I noticed before you did."

Considering his eye for detail, she had to concede this point. She exhaled shakily in defeat.

"Take a test for me?" he requested.

The hope was alive now, coiling within her, threatening to overwhelm her. "I don't have one."

He frowned at this, then placed a kiss to her forehead. "Then I'll be right back."

"It's Christmas Day," she protested.

"Walgreens is always open," he called over his shoulder.

"Michael!"

He turned at the door.

"Get several."

He disappeared down the stairs, and a moment later, she heard the garage door open and watched his car turn out of the driveway. Who knew what he'd told his family downstairs. She could just imagine Lincoln's smirk right about now. She supposed she should go down there, make sure he wasn't speculating about Michael's errand in front of Mike, but she knew her emotions were laid bare all over her face. Best if she just stayed upstairs.

She cleaned up the kids' rooms as she'd intended, to kill time, and downed the water she'd brought upstairs with her, in anticipation of peeing on a stick. And all the while, she reminded herself viciously that this was ridiculous, that 'accidents' like this simply didn't happen after vasectomies, that Michael couldn't intuit a pregnancy, couldn't _know_ this as he claimed.

And then he returned with a small paper bag under his arm and the hope surged again, pushing all these reasonable thoughts out of her head. She peed, and then they waited, pacing the bedroom floor. When enough time had passed, she went to retrieve the first of the three plastic tests she'd opened, the sight of it sending a swift wave of deja vu over her. In her mind, she replayed seeing the pale blue plus sign on the stick in Deb's bathroom in Miami, the absolute shock of it, the sudden joy tinged with terror around the edges. She saw the plus sign she'd glimpsed in her bathroom in Ithaca, remembered the way she'd smiled at it with giddy happiness, that earlier terror gone, replaced by only sweet anticipation. Today…the fear was back, along with the anticipation; everything felt riskier and scarier, the stakes higher than ever, perhaps.

She turned around abruptly in the middle of the bathroom. "I can't," she said. "You look."

He swallowed, then picked up the stick. He looked down at it for longer than Sara thought she could stand, and it was clear he'd recently practiced his poker face, because it was perfectly in place. Finally, he laid the stick in her hands, wrapping his arms around her in the same beat.

"Merry Christmas," he breathed.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I wasn't going to post this so soon, but with the holiday week here in the US, I won't be around for a few days. Happy Thanksgiving if you celebrate. Work safe!

The next two sticks proclaimed the same news as the first: Sara was definitely, without a doubt, pregnant.

 _"How?"_ she breathed, staring down at the trio of tests on the bathroom counter.

Michael wrapped his arms around her from behind, drawing her against him. Her hips felt wider, her breasts fuller. He hadn't been exaggerating earlier: he really had noticed these subtle changes days ago, as long ago as her holiday party even, exploring her body with his hands under the loose scrubs.

As he stared at her in the mirror, gladness pumped through him like adrenaline. He'd been honest about this, too: he really, _really_ did want this baby. As much as he'd wanted Henry. As much as he'd wanted Mike. But. Oh God, _but!_ The fear was right there, right under the surface, just below his calm demeanor. He had to work at it, no doubt about it, to smile at Sara's reflection as he ran his hands lightly over her abdomen as he had at the start of her last two pregnancies. As he kissed her, on this Christmas Day. He knew she was scared too, that he needed to be the person she could lean on, and so he would be. He wouldn't let his mind careen down the dark tunnel of fear that gaped, waiting for him, just on the other side of this happiness. He'd do whatever it took to stay in control, to banish the demons, to curb his always-recurrent PTSD. He'd set up more regular calls with Dr. Kate, he'd find a local psychologist, he'd take the prescribed medication he hated, if necessary. For the next nine months, he'd be a rock.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of family time: holiday movies on the couch with overtired kids, and dinner with Lincoln, LJ and their significant others. Michael was in a fog through it all, but a good fog, a happy fog. Lincoln knew something was up, after Sara and Michael's reaction to his unintended guess in the kitchen, but he said nothing, remaining quieter than usual. When they all left, Michael tucked his tired boys into bed early, then tucked Sara into bed early, and retreated downstairs, where he'd planned to clean up the kitchen. He began picking up dishes, but now that he was tired and alone, his mind kept flipping right past the gladness he felt about their new development and jumping directly to the fear, immobilizing him in it like mud. He ended up slouched against the table, the dirty plates forgotten as he bent inward, trying not to hyperventilate.

 _What if this pregnancy hurt Sara? What if this baby's birth ended up like Henry's, or worse?_ He couldn't face that, he couldn't live through that, he couldn't, they couldn't… Michael had known this moment would come, of course. It had only been a matter of time, but he was still dismayed to find how swiftly the mind-numbing panic had come upon him, so directly on the heels of his genuine happiness. He'd really hoped to hold it together longer.

He stood immobilized against the kitchen island for another minute, clamping his jaw shut to the scream that always wanted to tear through him when these attacks were at their worst. He closed his eyes, because his vision had failed him anyway, and counted backward slowly, as he'd been taught. With each number, however, he thought, _If this kills her, it's your fault,_ a cruel mantra that completely negated the calming intention of the counting. It made the panic attack last twice as long, but he took a sort of perverse pleasure in this. Somehow, it felt good to punish himself for something. This was not good, he decided. This was a whole new level of self-judgement that Michael knew would run away with him if he let it.

It was 11 pm on Christmas Day, so he didn't call Dr. Kate, but he did shoot her a text he hoped she'd see in the morning, requesting that she call him after the holidays. He felt better, having done something, even if he'd have to wait awhile, but instead, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket not ten seconds later. This woman was a godsend.

"Michael?" She greeted him with alarm.

He poured out everything to her, from his reaction to Sara's pregnancy scare in the fall to just five seconds ago, when he'd still been splashing water on his face to recover from the panic attack. When he was finished, she said gently, "Alright. Three things, Michael. First, congratulations." She left that single word hanging there, between them, until he said almost grudgingly,

"Thank you."

Then she continued, "Second, if you want to take care of Sara through this, emotionally, I mean, you're going to have to take care of yourself first. The old, 'your oxygen mask before hers' analogy, you know?"

He agreed.

"Because you're right…she doesn't need to worry about you, on top of her own worries. But that doesn't mean suffering in silence. That means being proactive. Are you ready for me to recommend a colleague for you there, in the city?"

"Yes."

She seemed surprised at his quick cooperation, clearly expecting resistance. She'd been trying to get him to a local psychologist for months. She said, "Well, good then."

"And thirdly?" Michael prompted.

"Thirdly, Michael…I can't say I'm too surprised by all this."

"We sure as hell are."

"I don't mean the pregnancy, per se," she said. "That's certainly unexpected. I mean, I'm not surprised you're in some sort of high stakes situation."

Michael sat down heavily at the table, rubbing his forehead. "Why?"

"You know how some people make the same decisions over and over again, despite bad results, like criticism or self-destruction? Like they're stuck on a default mode that's unhealthy for them? Can you think of someone like that?"

He thought of his brother. "Sure."

"Well, you and Sara…your default mode is 'risk'. Time and again, you choose the highest difficulty setting of any situation."

He disagreed. They didn't choose this. "I don't like risk."

"But you're accustomed to living there, right on the edge of it. You and Sara always have. That's where you're comfortable together. And frankly, while _you_ may not enjoy risk, Sara thrives on it. Do you think maybe, on some level, you worry that if your relationship, with its foundation of extreme risk and danger, becomes, shall we say, status quo, you'll lose something of what makes it work between you?"

"You think we use mortal danger to spice things up?" He smiled.

"Other couples just plan date nights, you know. Maybe try a little role playing, if they're really feeling adventurous."

He thought of Sara in those scrubs, in the clinic. "Role play might work."

Kate chuckled. "You sound calmer now," she noted. They talked for a few minutes more, then Kate instructed him to take his medication, and get some sleep. "You know the one," she added, "the prescription you've never asked me to refill?"

"Yeah, I have it right here." He eyed the plastic prescription container with its nearly full count of pills still inside. He knew the Paxil would help soften the images and emotions that plagued him, but it also put him in a haze. "I'll take it _sometimes,_ " he compromised.

He felt much better after he ended the call around midnight, but still didn't feel tired enough to join Sara in bed. He went to his desk, intending to check on the status of a few projects, just until he felt sleepy. The pill he'd taken would kick in soon. But instead of opening his work files, he found himself typing _top high risk OB-GYN_ into his web browser, and spent the next hour in search of the absolute best doctor in Chicago. In North America. In the world.

The next morning, he actually slept in—Sara commented on this happily, it was so rare for Michael to sleep soundly—but he knew he only had the damned Paxil to thank. Still, if it made Sara feel better, he supposed he could deal with the haze his mind fought until the pill wore off around 10 am. He continued his online search as the boys remained engaged with their new toys, though Henry continually interrupted him as he struggled to connect pieces of his new wooden train track all across the library. The train set hadn't been on Mike's list, but Santa had taken a chance.

"I super like this thing, Dada," Henry kept repeating, on his belly on the floor, painstakingly fitting pieces together.

"Santa thought you might," Michael told him. He showed him how to add a 'Y' connector, so the track could go in two directions. Henry watched carefully, his eyes shining over the possibilities this new piece added to his track configuration.

" _I_ do it now, Dada," he said swiftly, taking the connector from him, as well as more track pieces. Michael watched him successfully snake the track around his desk. Even though the box had warned the toy was for ages 4 and up, Henry seemed to have it well in-hand.

He returned to his search. As it turned out, a solid pool of high risk labor and delivery physicians had practices within the midwest and east. He'd been about to book flights to Toronto to beg an appointment with someone Time Magazine had named Physician of the Year, when an office he'd approved of right here in the city called him back unexpectedly, offering them a coveted appointment with their premiere specialist the very next day. There had been a cancellation: the original patient had gotten stuck flying home after the holidays, or some such thing… Michael stopped listening as soon as he'd confirmed they'd be there.

* * *

Dr. Margaret Mills was about sixty years old, but looked like she could probably run a marathon, and had, it turned out, just at Thanksgiving, winning her age division. She'd also just returned from a service trip to Mumbai, where she'd donated her time delivering the babies of unwed mothers. Sara had agreed to this appointment because Michael had been insistent, but this detail immediately won her over. She and Dr. Mills talked animatedly about medical care in India while Michael paced a bit impatiently, clearly anxious to get to the reason they were in this room. But when their potential new doctor finally acknowledged why they were here, it turned out she was as good at her job as she was at everything else. She already had Sara's medical history from Ithaca and Chicago in hand, couriered over from her regular OB just this morning, and even had Michael's chart from his urologist.

She didn't open these stacks of paper, however. Nor did she go over Sara's intake form, where she'd detailed the standard information: number of pregnancies and live births, date of last cycle, sexual history and the like. Instead, she looked between them, then said to Sara, "Tell me about your second pregnancy."

Sara wasn't sure where to start, so she pointed at her file. "Well, if you look at—"

"I've read it," Dr. Mills assured her. She stacked Michael's thinner file on top of Sara's. "All of it. I'd rather hear about it in your words." She spoke in a quick, self-assured way, but not in a manner that made Sara feel rushed or disregarded. She liked her even more than she had upon first meeting.

She started at the beginning, describing her pregnancy, noting that it had felt very similar to her first, right up until labor. Michael added a few details here and there, but mostly, let Sara talk. When she got to the part about Henry's birth, she fell back on clinical descriptions, trying to be precise for the OB, and Dr. Mills cut her off almost immediately.

"I can read that right here," she reminded Sara. She shifted focus. "Michael. Tell me about it?"

She certainly didn't get the clinical version from Michael…he walked them both through Sara's hemorrhage, Henry's C-section, her continued bleeding and medically-induced coma, Dr. Coleson's attempts to bring her out of it…all of it, every alarm, every close call, every heartbeat, practically, in brutal detail. Sara kept waiting for him to freak out in the reliving of this tale, but he maintained the calm optimism he'd exhibited thus far during this new pregnancy. She tried to take this at face value, even while feeling uneasy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When he was done chronicling their ordeal with Henry, he simply said, "It was the worst two days of my life, and I've had some pretty bad days."

Dr. Mills nodded slowly. "Yes," she agreed. "I imagine so." She glanced again between him and Sara. "I know who you are, of course," she said, almost like an afterthought. "Chicago native."

"Oh," Sara said simply, unsure how to address this, because Dr. Mills hadn't spoken with any trace of the usual condemnation _or_ intrigue. When people recognized them, it was always one or the other. To Dr. Mills, it seemed to be just…fact. Sara decided to leave it at that.

"So we weren't going to have any more kids," Michael said after a beat of silence, steering them back on track. "Because of Henry's birth. After a pregnancy scare a few months ago, I had a vasectomy."

"Yes." Dr. Mills finally opened his medical chart. "About nine weeks ago." She scanned a few pages from his oncologist's office. "And you followed recovery protocol? Abstained for the two week period? Went back for two check-ups afterward?"

"Yes."

"Religiously," Sara added.

Dr. Mills nodded, like all this jived with what she read, then set Michael's chart down. She looked at Sara. "You wrote on your intake form that you estimate you're about six weeks along? That's pretty specific."

"She's very good at this game," Michael supplied.

Dr. Mills handed Sara a folded paper patient gown. "So am I," she smiled. "I'll give you a moment to get changed. Michael can either stay in or—"

"He stays," Sara said.

A few minutes later, she was supine on the exam table, her gown around her waist. It wasn't as fun as the last time, in the clinic with Michael after hours. Her feet were in stirrups, for one thing. Dr. Mills palpated her abdomen and measured her, while Sara explained her recent hormonal fluctuations, the oddly inconsistent pregnancy symptoms. The OB listened quietly, gave her a quick internal exam, and then had her sitting up and smoothing the gown across her lap.

She addressed Michael first, however. "All your tests from the urologist's office came back as they should. So good news: there's nothing wrong with your vasectomy."

"Well, _something_ is wrong with it, because my wife is pregnant," Michael said bluntly. Sara frowned at him. Phrasing the situation this way didn't exactly paint her in a good light.

"There's an explanation for that," Dr. Mills said in her no-nonsense way, and Sara felt herself flush in indignation. But then she turned to her and said more gently, "You aren't six weeks along. You're twelve weeks. Just wrapping up your first trimester."

"What?" Twelve weeks meant…meant…the pregnancy scare…hadn't been a scare.

Dr. Mills confirmed this. "It was a false negative, very common."

"I took several." How was this possible? She flung a look to Michael, who stared back at her, mouth agape.

"You must have been very newly pregnant at that time," Dr. Mills explained. "Too early to detect HCG. But by your measurements, there's no doubt: you were pregnant before Michael's vasectomy." She chuckled. "The term 'too little, too late' comes to mind."

Michael turned to Sara, a look about him like a kid scrambling to keep up in class. This was such a rare countenance for Michael, Sara would have enjoyed it, had she been less thrown off balance herself. "Have you missed another period, then?" he asked her.

She thought about this, then asked him to pass her her phone, so she could scroll through her calendar. Maybe if she could pinpoint this conception as she had the others, she'd feel less disoriented. "I did miss yes, but…but after the negative test, then the vasectomy, I never entertained the thought for one moment." She turned to Dr. Mills. "I've been irregular in my cycle, which is unusual for me, but I chalked it up to hormonal changes or stress or something."

"You're not old enough for menopausal symptoms," Dr. Mills smiled. Then she paused, in thought. "What you took for an irregular period must have been some early pregnancy spotting."

Sara didn't like this, but Dr. Mills added, "Not so unusual. Nothing to worry about."

But she was worried, because she'd thought of something else. "I haven't been sick," she said with alarm. "I get awful morning sickness," she explained, looking to Michael, who confirmed this. "If you're saying I'm 12 weeks, then I've gone my whole first trimester without anything more than occasional, mild nausea. Exhaustion, yes. Heat flashes and some loss of appetite. But I'm usually sick all the time." Pregnancy didn't feel real to Sara without the misery of morning sickness.

Dr. Mills seemed to understand this. "Every pregnancy is different," she said. "But we're going to get you right into an ultrasound, and I think that will make you feel better."

"What, today?" Michael asked.

"In about ten minutes," Dr. Mills confirmed. "While we're waiting…" She studied them both thoughtfully again. "You're not wrong to be here, at this high risk practice," she told them. "Whenever I see a new patient, especially one who adamantly insists on seeing me," (she looked at Michael), "I hope they're wrong…that they've overrated and don't need my specialty services."

"But we're _not_ wrong," Michael repeated slowly. Sara glanced at him. He still seemed unbelievably calm and collected.

"Unfortunately, no, you're not wrong." Dr. Mills said, "You already know this," she said to Sara, "so I suspect you do too," she told Michael, "But there's no telling whether your uterine wall will tear again, like it did during your son's labor. And if it does tear, there's also no telling whether that trauma will cause you to hemorrhage again. What we do know: if your uterus is compromised before this baby is at a viable gestation, you will lose it. And if you do hemorrhage, you'll be right back where you were two years ago, repeating that worst day of your life," she told Michael.

As Dr. Mills had said, none of this news was anything Sara didn't already know, but she tensed upon hearing it aloud, put so matter-of-factly. And Dr. Mills wasn't finished, laying the situation out for them in her clipped tone.

"There are doctors—good doctors—who would advise you to terminate this pregnancy. Because you're in my office today, I already know you've eliminated that option, for whatever reasons you may have. So if you decide to remain in my care, here's how I'll proceed." She started listing points off on her fingers. "One: weekly visits with the full work up…ultrasounds, blood work, non-stress tests. We have eyes on you and the baby every few days. Two: limited bedrest probably by week 25, with possible hospitalized bedrest by week 30. Three: scheduled C-Section delivery for a completely controlled birth right at week 36. We don't wait for you to go into labor naturally, we don't risk any unforeseen situation."

Sara knew this strategy sounded like a dream birth plan to Michael. And though it sounded very constrictive to her, and she'd far rather try to reach 40 weeks gestation, she agreed all this made the most medical sense, in theory. But she saw one problem with Dr. Mills' highly-clinical approach right away: her sobriety wasn't theoretical. "I see your reasoning for all this," she told Dr. Mills carefully, "But you should know, I don't want to take any—"

"Don't even say it," Michael interrupted, his voice rising. His face showed signs of raw stress for the first time.

Sara felt almost relieved he'd finally shown a crack in his calm demeanor. She should have known it would be her natural birth stance that did it. "Let me finish."

"I am in Recovery," she told Dr. Mills, "and it's important to me not to take narcotics for pain. During the emergency with our son, I didn't get a choice in this matter, but in a controlled procedure like you're proposing, with plenty of time to plan, I _will_ be picky to the point of difficult on this front."

Dr. Mills smiled at her. "I can work with picky. I can even deal with difficult."

She looked at Michael, who stared stonily at the ground. "Alternative pain management _can_ be found," she told him. When he acknowledged this with a reluctant nod, she smiled at Dr. Mills. "Alright then," Sara decided. "Let's do it."

Dr. Mills consulted her scheduling calendar. "You'll be 36 weeks in mid-June. I still have openings on June 12th, 13th, and 17th. Do you have a preference?"

Sara blinked at her. "We're…picking our child's birthdate? Right now?"

"I know it takes some of the mystery out of it," Dr. Mills told her, "but get used to the idea, Sara. This pregnancy and delivery is going to be absent of any mystery, magic or risk, and all about planning, precision, and medical advances."

Sara turned to consult Michael on this announcement to find him beaming at their new doctor.

* * *

Sara had never had a sonogram as early as 12 weeks before, and the image that sprang to life on the video feed monitor astounded her. Even with her medical training, she had expected to see a bean, a blob, a mass of cells, but what swam into view was already a person, with hands and fingers and a nose and toes. Even though the fetus was still the size of her thumb, it felt ridiculous to Sara, ludicrous even, that she hadn't known what had been going on in her very body, for almost three months. How had she _missed_ this? The power of the mind, telling her _cannot, will not, may not_ was something to behold.

She stared at her baby, wondering who this person would be, simultaneously afraid to wonder, afraid to fall in love, though it was already too late. Because what if she failed him or her? What if her body betrayed them both, and she couldn't carry this child to term?

She turned to Michael for the first time since the baby's image had graced the screen, needing to see that look of awe he'd worn glimpsing Henry on ultrasound, but instead, his expression bore a level of self-loathing only Michael Scofield could command. A sudden chill came over her. He'd insisted he was glad of this pregnancy. But then, what _was_ this?

She glanced at the ultrasound tech. "Could you give us a minute?" she asked.

The woman looked between them and excused herself discretely. When they were alone, Sara reached for Michael's hand to draw him over to where she sat connected to the machine. He didn't seem to notice. He just stared at the screen, now a still capture of their child, kind of rocking back on his heels. "Michael. What's the matter?" she asked him. She tried to smile at him, but the attempt felt shaky, disingenuous.

He turned to her then, his jaw tight as he seemed to struggle to acknowledge her, then he sank into the chair the tech had vacated, covering his face with his hands. "The fight we had," he told her, his voice muffled by his hands. "On the patio."

Her mind spun back to that cold night in late September. It felt like a long time ago, so much had happened since. "What about it?"

" _This_ was the baby, Sara," he said roughly, "When we argued. When I told you to…when I wanted you to…it was _this_ baby. Right here." He broke off on a hard sob.

 _Oh._ Her chest constricted violently. "Michael." She had no idea what to say to this. She couldn't erase what he'd said. She couldn't take back her anger. She couldn't even get him to _look_ at her, and she couldn't get up, with sensors stuck all over her belly. "Please, will you come here?"

His shoulders shook.

"Michael. Please, don't. Don't."

He just sobbed.

"I would never have done what you asked," she told him firmly. "Never."

"I _know._ " Knowing this clearly made him feel worse.

"Please come here?" She felt so powerless.

He finally turned his head to look at her, his face wet with tears, but didn't rise.

She tried to hold his gaze. "You were afraid," she told him adamantly. "You love me, and were afraid for me. That's all."

"I'm _still_ afraid for you," he confessed. His face was a mask of misery.

"Me, too," she told him simply. "So will you _please_ come over here? Because I need you." And when she needed him, he came to her. Always. "I know you don't want me to be alone in this."

This did it. Michael rose slowly, like his body weighed a thousand pounds, and crossed to her, sinking back down at her side. He let his head lower again, his forehead coming to rest gently against her bare stomach. She ran her hand over his skull, a featherlight blessing.

"I am so sorry," he said wretchedly. "I will make it up to you." Sara tried to shush him, but he wouldn't be comforted. "I will make it up to you," he repeated, more softly. Then again. "I will make it up to you."

She couldn't tell if he addressed her, or their unborn baby. Either possibility tore at her heart.

* * *

After his panic attack Christmas night and subsequent freak out in the sonogram room, Michael considered himself to be 0 for 2 in the 'be a rock for Sara' game. He called Kate back, telling her to expedite that referral to a psychologist for him in Chicago, then explaining that the Paxil was hardly making a dent in his anxiety. She told him to be patient, reminding him that Sara didn't need him to be superhuman. Just there alongside her.

In the midst of all this, it was still Christmas Break. Sara returned to work as planned ( _Don't start this now_ , she told Michael adamantly, when he tried to talk her out of this), leaving him at home with the boys with the job of gearing up for their overnight guests and the annual New Year's party. Dylan was due to arrive with his parents the day of the party, and Mike practically couldn't contain his excitement. Michael felt less enthused…all he seemed to have room for in his head was Sara's pregnancy, the sonogram images they'd glimpsed burning a hole in his brain.

They decided to hold off talking to Mike about this until after all the festivities; even though Michael and Sara's emotions were all over the place, and Mike normally missed nothing, his focus was on the fun of the holidays and Dylan, and Michael wanted it to stay that way. To that end, he let Mike download lots of movies and games for Dylan's visit, and in return, Mike helped him ready the guest room upstairs and straight up all the toys—even Henry's—from Christmas.

Ellie was off-duty until early January, but she called mid-morning the day she knew Dylan's family would be arriving. "I'm getting cabin fever in my apartment," she told Michael, "and I know you're running around getting ready for your party. Give me a job."

He told himself to refuse—she'd earned her break—then thought about grocery shopping amid holiday crowds with Henry in tow and sent her to Costco with Mike, a detailed list, and his Amex card. They returned to the house with enough provisions for the party to get them through summer, then she bundled Henry up for a trip across the street to the park while Michael unloaded. As he watched them gamely tromp through the snow together to the swings, he thought, _We cannot lose this woman next year._ But once Ellie had her nursing degree, how could they possibly keep her? He'd have to make it worth her while, Michael thought, and _then_ some. And then some more.

Though they weren't telling anyone their news yet, Michael made one exception, with Sara's permission. He rang his brother before they needed to head to the airport to pick up Dylan, Heather, and Larry.

"Wondered when you were going to get around to calling," Linc complained, when Michael told him he had something to tell him. "But you didn't need to bother…I already know what you're going to say."

"I see."

"You're not the only one with a brain in his head."

"Well, what do you think?" Michael probed. He braced himself. Lincoln sounded gruff.

"I think you're both fucking nuts," he said succinctly.

Michael tried to explain the situation with the vasectomy, the fact that the pregnancy had been unexpected, but Lincoln cut him off.

"You know what? Sure. Whatever."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael asked guardedly. His brother was in a terrible mood. He wondered if Sheba had left today. If so, he'd planned the timing of this call very poorly.

"It means, Michael, there's _always_ something with you two. I swear, you like it that way. Feed off it. Why can't you just be boring, just for a while? The rest of us could use a break from the melodrama."

It was actually almost exactly what Kate had told him, put far less eloquently. "Alright," Michael told him slowly. "Feel free not to get involved."

"I will feel free, actually," Linc shot back. "I don't need to enable this shit."

 _Enable?_ That sounded like therapist-speak. "Has Sheba dragged you to a shrink, Lincoln?"

"What, I couldn't use one? With this fucking family?"

Jesus. "Fine," he said flatly. "I'm sorry to make your life more complicated, Lincoln." _After all, he was super busy with a part time job, if he was holding it down, and a girlfriend, and…yep, that was it._ Michael sighed. "Are you still coming tonight?"

"Am I still invited?"

"God damn it, Lincoln. Of course you are."

"Good," Lincoln huffed. "LJ is looking forward to it." He hesitated, then said more gently, "Tell Sara…" He wavered, then seemed to find a reserve of anger. "Just tell her I'm pissed, alright?"

"Yeah. Got it."

* * *

Sara had been looking forward to seeing Heather, of course, but hadn't realized how much so until she stood in her kitchen. She'd wondered whether it would be hard to keep the news of her pregnancy from her friend, but found that just letting things be _normal_ felt right. Heather gushed over the house, and Henry, who'd grown so much, and congratulated Sara on her directorship at the clinic. Sara avoided Michael's gaze as she thanked Heather; this was a point of mild contention between them at the moment. _Spoiler alert,_ she wanted to tell him, _I'm still taking it._

They all enjoyed a rather boisterous dinner together—just soup and salad, to keep things simple before the party—and now that a sonogram had allayed Sara's worries about her lack of morning sickness, she let herself fully enjoy the fact that she felt hungry, sampling the appetizers Ellie had shopped for, too. Mike and Dylan disappeared upstairs immediately after eating, to get the playroom all ready for the younger guests. As they tromped up the stairs, Sara heard Dylan ask all too casually if Marika would be there tonight.

Mike shrugged. "I guess. Who cares?"

Dylan, clearly, though this went right over Mike's head. Sara and Heather smiled.

Lincoln arrived with LJ and his fiancé just before seven, dutifully hauling the big bags of ice he'd been assigned. He gave Michael only a cursory nod, and looked like he planned to do the same to Sara, then impulsively hugged her, holding her to him for a long time, by Lincoln-standards. When he released her, the ice bags now on the floor at their feet, he just muttered, "I don't want to talk about it."

She nodded. She didn't really want to, either.

Once the others started to arrive, it became the usual chaos, albeit in a bigger house, which was helpful. The kids had space of their own, which was good, because there were far more of them than in years' past, thanks to their more convenient location in Chicago. Putting them in the large play room reduced the din somewhat, and the adults gravitated outdoors, onto the rooftop patio with its tea lights and fire pit, as Michael had envisioned. He had his bar, but didn't drink, Sara noticed. He held onto Henry, who insisted on being with the grown-ups, and assigned Sucre as bartender, at least until they needed to make another run on whiskey and tequila before 10 pm. After that, C-Note replaced him, who proved less liberal in his cocktail measurements.

Mahone brought Felicia Lang, who still lived in the city, and was still with the Bureau. They were just friends now, had been for years. "It's just good to have someone in your life who understands, you know?" Alex said to Sara, as they took in the flames licking against the side of the fire pit. "Who you don't have to explain things to."

"Yeah," she agreed simply. This was what she loved about this party, which had begun on the sand in Panama with such sober undertones. It still contained an air of nostalgia and healing about it, despite the more raucous, celebratory nature of the past few years. Everyone here understood. There was no need for explanations, or apologies, or corrections for the misinformed.

"How are you doing, really?" she asked Alex now. "Still going to the Meeting at that church on 28th Street?"

He nodded. "I could stand to go more often," he admitted. "Life gets in the way."

"Only if you let it," she countered gently.

He tried to shrug this off, but she gave him a stern look. His face scrunched in mild frustration. "You're a real pain in my ass, you know that, Tancredi? You always have been."

She laughed. "Yeah, I know." She patted his shoulder as Henry grabbed onto her leg. "Go to your meetings, Alex."

* * *

Henry kept gravitating to Sara, despite a long line of fans happy to play with him, hold him, and entertain him. "I want Mama," he told Michael every time he scooped him up, saving him from the dangers of the fire or the railing or the stairs. Michael supposed everyone was right: no child had as much determined energy as his second-born son.

Ellie, of course, offered to help, but Michael shooed her off to enjoy the evening; unlike her aunt, she harbored no past baggage regarding the breakout, and was having a good time. She'd brought a friend, one of her roommates, who had taken over DJ duties. Michael realized he didn't even know his name, let alone his criminal record or, hopefully, lack thereof. Usually, Michael made it a point to know everything available to him about everyone via the public domain, down to the number of parking tickets a person had, before they entered his house. Sara would say he was lightening up. He'd say he was losing his edge. He eyed the roommate a little harder, until the poor kid returned his gaze nervously. Michael forced himself to smile.

The next time Henry reached out for Sara, she picked him up before Michael could redirect him. He took him back, to Henry's wail of protest.

"I don't mind," she said. "Take a break."

"He's too heavy," he told her. "I don't want you to lift him."

"Michael," she started, "We'll never make it to June if you—" but he didn't let her finish, cutting her off with a kiss. Her lips were warm and soft and begged for more thorough attention, but he had to satisfy himself with one more quick brush of his mouth to hers.

"Say goodnight to Mama," he told Henry, bringing their son up to face level so he could kiss her, too.

Henry took this task very seriously, studying Sara's face carefully before deciding where, precisely, to plant his lips. Michael understood; this was a tough decision. He settled on the side of her nose, smooshing his mouth against her with a wet smack.

She chuckled, then sighed resignedly. "Goodnight, baby," she said.

Michael carried him down the hallway to the stairwell, past the play room, now rocking with Marika's karaoke machine. Henry didn't even show interest in this…his head was starting to nod against Michael's chest. In his room one floor down, he dimmed the light before getting his son into his favorite footie pajamas; he'd just gotten them for Christmas and they had, of course, miniature Santa Clauses all over them. He tucked him into bed, and they looked at each other in the dark. Michael couldn't decide which part of _Henry's_ face was most kissable either…every inch of him was delicious. He told Henry so, reveling in his sleepy giggle. "Come back and see me af-sleep, Dada?" he requested, as Michael tip-toed out.

"I always check on you, Henry," he promised. For good measure, he grabbed the baby monitor and switched it on, since he'd be upstairs.

A floor up, the karaoke machine now belted out a new song. Actually, a somewhat inappropriate song, Michael thought, now that he was listening to it. He paused at the doorway. Yep, Marika was back on the Taylor Swift CD, her favorite. But she'd graduated from early hits to more recent, more provocative numbers. As Michael walked in, she belted out the chorus,

 _"In the middle of the night, in my dreams, you should see the things we do…ba-by.."_

Dylan sat in the front row of admirers, eyes wide as Marika sang and danced enthusiastically. Michael cross the room at a quick trot, moving in front of the kids to shut off the song. "How about we go back to Disney classics, alright?" he instructed, to Dylan's disappointment, fiddling with the settings on the machine.

Marika agreed with a shrug, gamely diving into Do You Want to Build a Snowman. Michael chuckled as he left, heading back to the patio. _Sucre had his hands full, poor bastard. Raising a daughter must be…_ The smile died on his lips. A… _daughter._ What if…?

While he'd known of course, theoretically-speaking, that this new baby could be a girl, he hadn't actually entertained the thought as an actual possibility until this very moment. When he tried to picture it, a baby girl of his, of Sara's…the concept filled him with both joy and dread.

Back upstairs, Sara looked at him with alarm when he returned to her side. "What's the matter?" she said. "Henry okay?"

"Yeah," he told her. "Fine." He held up the monitor. "I'll check on him in a bit." He smiled at her weakly, but she still looked back at him with mild concern, her eyes catching his in the firelight. God, she was beautiful. So were his sons. If they had a daughter, she'd be beautiful, too. Why'd he fall in love with a beautiful woman who would give him beautiful children?

"Are you freaking out about something right now?" she asked, trying not to raise her voice.

He managed to shake his head. He didn't want her have to worry about him again. "I'm fine," he repeated. "Everything will be fine."

Shit.

* * *

As planned, they told Mike about the baby just before school started up again. Michael was loathe to introduce something 'new' to his world yet again, but it couldn't be avoided, especially given how far along Sara already was. They were all going to need time to get used to the idea of this pregnancy, and it would be too hard to keep it from Mike, given the weekly doctor appointments and Sara's growing stomach.

When they called him in from the kitchen on the last Sunday of break, however, Mike looked dubious. "A living room talk? That's never good," he surmised candidly, eyes guarded.

"When did you get so jaded?" Sara scolded. Michael smiled, somewhat amused.

Mike just sat down slowly, like a world-weary veteran of battle. "What is it? Are we moving again?"

"No," Michael told him. "Of course not. We're staying right here."

"Well then did you get a new client, and have to leave somewhere? Do I have to change to a different class? Was Uncle Lincoln right, and there's going to be another baby?"

Michael blinked at him. "Um, the third one."

Mike looked in stupefied silence between his parents. Michael felt like a kid himself, sitting on the couch under Mike's gaze, as though he'd been caught in some transgression, and was now being sternly reprimanded for his poor judgement. He was ready for Mike to say, _I'm not mad at you…I'm just disappointed in you._ Instead, he said simply, "But I thought that couldn't happen anymore."

"Uh, well, it turns out it's happening just one more time," Sara said gently.

Michael started to go into the timing of the pregnancy versus the vasectomy, then remembered he was speaking to a child…a child who really didn't need a detailed timeline. Sometimes, he forgot that, when it was Mike.

" _Just_ one more?" Mike confirmed, as though discussing cookies at dessert.

"Just one more," Sara breathed. She sounded like she really wanted that cookie.

Mike's face softened. "Alright then," he agreed. "I guess it's fine."

Sara smiled. "Glad to have your approval," she told him.

He nodded at her, taking this statement at face value. "Only," he added, "it will be okay, right?" He glanced at Michael. "Mom won't have to be in the hospital extra long, like she was when Henry came?"

Michael's throat closed tightly. He tried to swallow, banishing the familiar fear that had risen up, unbidden, at Mike's words. It always lurked now, always ghosted his thoughts.

"Because you wouldn't let anything bad happen," Mike added.

"Mike," he tried, his voice tight, but Sara swooped in.

"We're going to do everything we can to make sure nothing bad happens," she told him. "We have a plan," she explained, knowing Mike liked that word. Michael did, too. "And a really good doctor to help, and I'll be taking it really easy, compared to last time."

This clearly wasn't the certain response Mike had been looking for. "But, can you be 100 percent sure—"

"No, Mike. No one can ever be 100 percent sure of anything," Sara reminded him gently. "We've talked about that."

"But then how sure are you, exactly, that Mom will be okay?" Mike asked Michael, anxiety rising, obviously hoping (correctly) that Michael would be more willing to deal in hard numbers than Sara. "Ninety percent sure?" he asked, while Michael struggled to answer. "Eighty? Seventy?"

"I don't, I can't be…"

"Ninety-nine percent," Sara said definitively. Both Michael and Mike looked at her. "I'm certain of that, most definitely."

Mike looked dubious again. Michael didn't blame him. "Based on what quantitive criteria, Mom?"

"My gut."

"That's not a—"

"Actually," Michael said, finding his voice as the persistent fear ebbed a bit, "I've never known your mom's gut to be wrong."

"So it's 100 percent?"

"It's 99 percent," Sara repeated firmly. "No more, no less."

Mike considered this for a moment. "Alright," he agreed. He sighed, then his face registered that worldly look again. "Are you going to try to explain this to Henry? Because he won't get it."

"Only that there will be a baby, and only when the time is nearer," Sara said. "He won't understand that it's not immediately."

Mike nodded. When he spoke again, he mused, "Why did I have to be the oldest, I wonder?"

"What's wrong with being the oldest, baby?" Sara asked.

"I've had to deal with _everything,"_ Mike noted, in that same jaded tone that amused Michael. "As far as Henry knows, he has totally normal parents."

Sara _hmpffed_ in response to this, but Michael found himself able to laugh. "Well, he understands more every day. Pretty soon you can give him the full run-down."

"I'll start by inviting him to come sit down with me on the couch," Mike smiled. He patted the cushion he sat on, as though testing it out, then settled in a bit more comfortably. Michael noticed he scooted himself closer to Sara, who put her arms around him. "So, when will the baby be here?" he asked, looking at her a bit shyly. Given his quite recent understanding of the mechanics of all this, Michael thought he was handling this announcement with a great deal of maturity.

"June 12th," Sara told him.

"For real? Exactly?" Mike seemed buoyed to have a precise date to circle on the calendar.

"Like I said," Sara told him, "we have a plan. A good, solid plan."

"Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked, eying Sara's midsection as though maybe he could tell by analyzing it.

"We don't know yet," she told him, "but we will soon." With the number of ultrasounds and tests Sara would have, finding out early on would probably be inevitable.

"What do you want it to be?" Mike asked.

Sara said, "Either," while Michael said,

"We don't care."

"Why do people always say they don't care? I care. I want it to be another brother."

"Why?" Michael asked him. "Henry doesn't keep you busy enough?"

"I don't know anything about girls."

"You could learn," Sara pointed out.

"I don't want to," Mike persisted. "I want a boy."

"Well," Sara said, "I suppose you have a 50-50 chance of getting your way."

"Actually," Michael said, "The odds of our having another boy are 52.3 percent, statistically-speaking."

"What?" Sara laughed. "You can't know that."

"Mom, statistics is the easiest math there is. So he knows." He thought for a minute. "That means the chance of a girl is 47.7 percent."

"Well, if it _is_ a girl," Sara told Mike, "you might have to consider learning something new. _Both_ of you might."

"Something new?" Mike debated, glancing at Michael for solidarity. Michael tried not to look intimidated. "We'll have to think about it," Mike decided.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Super long chapter, but I guess I'll just stop warning you all of long chapters...by now, you know what you're in for. (I believe that after this update, I'll return to Mike POV for an installment there, in case anyone wondered.) NSFW...toward the end of this chapter.

Sara's 13 week sonogram looked just as good as week 12: healthy uterine lining, healthy baby, healthy Sara. Michael ticked the boxes of each of these points off in his head, satisfied, at least for the immediate present, that a cloud of doom did not loom large over them. It was a feeling he fought constantly, and resented fighting: he wanted to feel wholehearted happiness about this pregnancy, wanted it for himself as much as for Sara, but after Henry's birth, that sort of unfettered, naive joy proved elusive. They'd been robbed of it, forever.

He contented himself with cautious optimism. Maybe it was the power of suggestion, but now that he knew she was over three months along, he swore he could tell.

"No, no, I never show until at least week 15," she insisted, with the air of confidence of someone pregnant a dozen times. He didn't argue with her, but she was wrong: she'd already gained weight in her belly, thighs, and breasts, an observation Michael decided to keep to himself, and when he slid his palm over her abdomen, he could feel the slight swell there, below her navel, his fingers not quite spanning as far across her stomach as they usually could.

"Stop trying to take measurements," she said, batting his hand away half-heartedly in bed, but he just smiled, capturing her wrists and raising them over her head, giving him a better angle of examination. She laughed, then stopped protesting as he slid down her body to kiss her cleavage. And ribs. And belly.

Now that their family knew about the pregnancy, Michael wanted to tell others, particularly Sucre and Ellie, but Sara held him off. After wrapping her mind around the reality of her growing stomach, her anxiety had shifted to work. She was scheduled to take on the directorship role at the clinic January 15, which was only about a week away. She paced the living room after work, debating what to do, while Michael entreated her to please take it easy and sit down. She ignored him in this request.

"On the one hand," she told Michael, "I really want this."

"You want…which?" he probed gently. He didn't see how she could be both director of the busy clinic _and_ on bedrest and maternity leave within a short number of months. She frowned at him, and he knew he stood on shaky ground, but he pressed anyway. "You will be an amazing director," he told her, "but…can you be an amazing director right _now_? Wouldn't you rather take that on when you can give it your all?"

This was sound reasoning, he knew, but where Sara worked, when, how much, and why were her decisions entirely, and Michael felt dangerously close to overstepping. As though to underscore this, she didn't answer him right away, stewing for a moment. At least he hadn't said what he really wanted her to do: quit her job entirely and remain in bed until June.

She finally sat down. "If you pass something like this up, for personal, family reasons, you're pegged as not serious about your career," she told him flatly. She stared at nothing, her gaze on the opposite wall. "It's not fair."

"Of course it's not," he agreed.

She tore her gaze from the wall, and looked at Michael. "But nothing is more important than family," she said resolutely. "God knows I know that. So," she decided slowly, "I'm going to have to go to the board. If Dan hadn't asked me to step into the directorship, I wouldn't disclose the pregnancy so soon at work, but taking on a new position…I need to let them know right away. They'll need to find someone else."

She said this with such resignation, Michael winced. "Maybe they'll have a solution you can't see," he offered.

She humored him with a weak smile.

* * *

The board convened on her behalf a couple days later. Even though it was a causal meeting, in the modest conference room of the clinic, and she knew these people supported her, Sara felt intense trepidation as the group filed in. She hated the idea of letting everyone down. She remained professional, explaining why she'd assembled them in a straightforward manner, pausing to acknowledge the offered congratulations to her news, but found herself tripping up a bit as she explained how she needed to put her family first, despite the wrinkle this put in her very serious ambitions at the clinic.

"While I'd still love to move forward with the directorship," she concluded, "I don't want to shortchange the clinic." She paused, because she really didn't want to to do this, but knew it was the right thing. "Therefore, I need to decline the offer of the promotion, though of course I'll fill the role this winter until you can find a replacement."

The president of the board frowned. "Let's not be so hasty," she said immediately.

Sara appreciated this, but: "This pregnancy is high risk," she said. Though she'd already touched upon this, she put a finer point on it. "I already know I'll require an extended maternity leave, maybe even as early as April, if I'm prescribed bedrest."

A second board member clarified her due date, then asked, "Do you think you could be back, full time, by the end of August?"

Her baby would be two months old. "If all goes well," she agreed slowly. _Would it?_ her brain bounced back at her, a thought she squelched.

He nodded, then addressed the rest of the board. "Dan doesn't leave for Ecuador until September. We could get him back as interim through the summer."

Dan? "I thought he was gone?" she asked, already intuiting she was behind the curve on something.

"Not until next fall," the president told her. "His contract starts in September, so he's created a sort of sabbatical for himself before then. Said he wanted time to publish a few articles, do some academic work."

"He's here in the city the next nine months?" Sara's first thought: _That son-of-a-bitch totally lied to me._ But on second thought, he hadn't actually told her he was departing for Doctors Without Borders immediately. Just that he'd signed on with them, and was leaving the clinic. "It seems a lot to ask of him after he's moved on," she said lamely.

But they seemed to have already decided. "We want you in this position, Sara," the president said, "Long term. If in the short term, we have to tread water a bit, so be it." She looked around at the board. "Goodness knows we've had to piece things together on a wing and a prayer before, and I'm sure we'll have to, again." A few people chuckled…this was indeed the nature of running a medical center in an under-served area. Gratitude to this board washed through Sara as the president pressed, "Will you withdraw your resignation if we can get Dan back as your interim?"

 _If?_ Sara had no doubt Dan would do it. The knowledge made her feel guilty, but she wouldn't be able to stop him from swooping in to save the day, even if she wanted to. And she found she didn't want to. "Yes," she said, "I'd be honored to still accept the directorship, if you'll still have me."

* * *

Dan called her before the work day was even over. He spoke briskly, as though she had disturbed him, and not the other way around. Which she _had,_ of course.

"I hear I need to congratulate you," he said.

"Um, yes. Thank you, Dan." She swallowed.

"And uh, I just called to let you know firsthand that I told the board I'll be happy to return as interim in the summer, or this spring and summer, whichever you need."

More guilt sluiced through her, chased by relief. "I want you to know, I did not ask them to do this."

"I know that," he told her easily. "You couldn't have…you didn't even know I was available."

"Yeah, about that—"

"Yes, about that, I'm actually pretty busy," he supplied swiftly, "finally able to dig into some research I've been interested in pursuing."

"Oh. That's great."

"So I told the board that while I'm happy to step in when needed, I won't be able to come around much, or at all, really, until you go on leave. You tag out, I tag in, like that."

"Alright. Of course." She swallowed. "I'm grateful, Dan."

His tone softened. "I told you I'd never leave you to the wolves," he said.

"Well," she had to object, "this wasn't exactly the situation I envisioned when I worried about fending for myself."

"It's good though? You're…glad?" He said this in a rush; Sara had the feeling he had planned not to ask.

"I am," she told him.

"Alright then," he answered gruffly. "That's what matters. Listen, um, take care of yourself," he told her, returning to that rough tone, then added, "please."

There was something painfully transparent about that 'please', and Sara felt herself wince. When she answered him, she made every effort to match his forced bravado. "Will do," she said swiftly. "We'll be in touch, Dan."

When she ended the call, she felt drained. So much for the clean break Dan had managed to achieve at Christmas.

* * *

Michael was super excited to hear about the solution to Sara's work problem. And by super excited, he told her sardonically that evening, he meant 100 percent unenthusiastic.

"I am completely over this guy, Sara," he told her straight out. "Done." The thought of Dan riding in like a knight in shining armor, solving Sara's problems, had him slamming each glass he unloaded from the dishwasher into the cupboard.

She eyed him guardedly. "But my problem _is_ solved," she pointed out, "and that's what matters, right?"

He said nothing, enjoying the alarming sound the next set of glasses made when they landed with force on the shelf.

She told him how Dan had made it clear he would not be visiting the clinic while she was there this winter. "All he's agreed to do is to step in while I'm away." She put a subtle emphasis on that last word.

"And we both know that if you needed him to fling himself off a cliff, he'd do that for you, too." He laughed, but felt no mirth. "Maybe you can ask that of him, next."

"Michael!"

"Would you enjoy it if Nika Volek showed up to help me on a project?" he challenged. "Maybe out of the country?" He watched this ammunition land with the intended effect. Sara looked stung, but again, this gave him no joy.

"Very mature," she told him.

"Sara, I'm sorry," he sighed. "I was just making a point."

She eyed him. "I have no control over either the board's decisions, or Dan's," she said firmly.

This, actually was a much fairer point. Michael knew she had become caught in the middle of a situation not of her making. He believed that without any doubt. "I _am_ glad a solution has been found," he told her grudgingly. "I know how important your job is to you." He looked at her again, feeling himself soften. How could he blame Dan for giving Sara what was in his power to give? Wouldn't he, Michael, do the same?

He set the last of the glasses in the cupboard with more restraint, and reached for her. "I'm glad you have someone in your corner," he told her. "Just do me a favor, and try to find an ally who doesn't want to run away with you, alright?"

She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his neck. "Speaking of running away," she said, ducking acknowledgement of this request very effectively, "I managed to hang onto my week in February. We're still going to Baja, aren't we?"

He'd been thinking about this. What if she needed Dr. Mills while they were away? What if the long flight was a bad idea?

"Please, Michael," she said. "We need this…you said so yourself. And Mike needs it, too."

It was the thought of disappointing Mike that swayed him. "Let me look into direct flights," he told her.

* * *

Sara was already getting a little tired of seeing the inside of Dr. Mill's exam rooms. An appointment every single week felt excessive to her, an opinion she didn't bother expressing to Michael, who she knew felt determined to execute the Dr. Mill's Plan to a 'T'.

At week 14, their doctor said, "We're going to draw a little blood work today."

"Interesting choice of pronoun," Sara responded, maybe a tad testily.

Dr. Mills just lifted an eyebrow. "Is this you being difficult? Because if so, you'd better work on that, sister. I'm not even fazed."

Michael laughed, then tried to disguise the sound as a cough.

"What's the blood draw for?" Sara asked, ignoring Michael.

"Cell Free DNA test," they were told.

"That's not very commonly done," Sara noted. Overseas, yes, but not in the States.

"Why not?" Michael asked. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing," Sara said, "it analyzes fetal DNA in the mother's blood, giving you information on any genetic diseases, abnormalities, Down Syndrome, that sort of thing." She looked at Dr. Mills. "But an amniocentesis is more standard."

"I don't want to do an amniocentesis," Dr. Mills explained simply. "We want to avoid anything invasive during this pregnancy."

Sara had to agree. Poking a massive needle through her uterine lining sounded like a foolhardy thing to do, now that Dr. Mills offered an alternative. Although…

"We don't _need_ to do a DNA test at all," she pointed out. "Michael and I haven't discussed it yet."

"Why wouldn't we do it?" Michael asked, while simultaneously, Dr. Mills stated, "We're doing it."

Sara wouldn't allow herself to be bullied. "Give us a minute," she told Dr. Mills firmly, and the doctor gave Sara a speculative look, as if perhaps she had underestimated her stubbornness, before exiting the room to give them a minute of privacy.

"You promised," Michael reminded her right away. "You'd follow the plan, we'd agree to every test."

"Every test that monitors the baby's health and safety in utero," Sara clarified. " _This_ test is all about chromosomal abnormalities and genetic conditions. And it's very thorough, leaving no stone unturned." She knew adding this fact only strengthened Michael's argument, as far as he'd be concerned, but Sara didn't see the point of learning genetic conditions that were already set, which they couldn't change or address until the baby's birth, anyway.

"I want no surprises the day you deliver," he told her flatly.

Sara sighed. "Michael…"

"You weren't there, Sara. With Henry. You don't understand."

She looked at him incredulously. "I wasn't _there_?"

"You know what I mean," he told her impatiently. "I was the one who had to stand on the sideline, completely helplessly. I was the one who had to watch." He picked up her hand and sandwiched it between his own. "I need to be better armed, this time. I want to know every single thing possible."

"Even the baby's gender?" she challenged. This test would read chromosomes, looking for a Y or absence of Y.

He didn't hesitate. "Yes. I want to know."

She studied him, his shoulders and neck tense, his face set. She'd seen this look on him before, too many times, as they'd set forth together to do something dangerous, something risky, as they'd worked to take down the Company. Michael would never have gone into one of those situations unprepared. How could she request that of him now?

"Alright," she said softly. "We'll learn everything we can."

* * *

The results of the blood test were available the very next day, and Michael checked his phone all afternoon, waiting for a call from Dr. Mills. Surely she'd contact them immediately if anything had been amiss. Or, would she ask them to come in to the office if something was wrong? Was it good news, or bad news, that his phone remained silent? He had just about worked his mind into a knot over this when Sara called from work.

"Dr. Mills' office forwarded me the lab report," she told him, "with a note confirming everything looks fine. She would have called us in, otherwise," she confirmed.

Michael exhaled. "What does the report say?"

She sounded surprised he'd ask, like he'd accused her at sneaking a peek at a wrapped gift. "I haven't opened the attachment," she said. "I thought we could do that together, tonight?"

He made a nice dinner, mostly to keep his mind occupied, then on impulse, added candles and their best tablecloth. With the baby's health confirmed, all that really remained newsworthy in the test results was the fun part: gender. They might as well make an evening out of it.

When Mike arrived home from soccer practice, he stepped into the dining room and said, "Whoa. Fancy."

"Go wash up," Michael told him. "And leave those cleats at the door."

Mike started for the stairs, then turned. "Should I wear a tie?" he asked.

Michael thought about this. "Optional," he decided.

When Sara walked in the door a half hour later, she laughed in surprise. "This is fun."

Mike and Michael were in shirt and tie, and even Henry had decided to don his 'bestest' clothes, dug out of his top drawer after seeing his brother's attire. He'd wanted a tie of his own, of course, and Michael had offered him one of his…a bad idea, since Henry had immediately tried to wrap it around his neck.

"Stay still," Mike told him now, trying to re-tie it correctly for him.

"I'm pretty sure Mike's the only nine-year-old boy who can expertly knot a tie," Sara mused, still looking a bit bewildered at the scene she'd stepped into. But even given his skills, Michael's tie on Henry's body proved too great a challenge.

"Wear it like this, Henry," Mike told him, retying it around his waist. The end of the tie dangled behind him. "Now it's a tail."

"Tail tie?" Henry confirmed, studying Mike as though trying to determine whether this was really a thing.

"If tail ties are wrong, I don't want to be right," Sara told him, tugging on his tail and making him laugh. "Do _I_ need to change?" she asked Mike and Michael.

Michael scanned her ensemble: the only remaining pair of slacks she could button, and a loose blouse. She was in that difficult in-between stage, in which regular clothes felt uncomfortable and maternity clothes didn't yet fit. He was about to tell her to skip it, when Mike enthusiastically said, "Yes, you have to, Mom!"

"I'll try," she told them.

"Dinner in five minutes," Michael called after her.

She came back downstairs to Michael wrestling Henry into his booster chair. He looked up to note she'd donned a dress he hadn't seen in quite some time, not in fact, since early in her pregnancy with Henry. It was the dress she'd bought for their first New Year's party in Ithaca, the one that hugged the curves of her hips and chest so appealingly. It fit snugger in the midsection tonight, the swell of her stomach distinct for the first time.

Michael's attention left Henry, who used his distraction to his advantage, escaping the booster. He tugged it to the floor so he could stand up on the chair instead. Michael didn't care. "Wow," he told Sara. "This dress just keeps improving." He kissed her lightly, and (mostly) chastely, so as not to embarrass Mike, but let his eyes convey his full appreciation, turning them intently on her.

She flushed under his gaze, then again when Mike said, "I can see where the baby is, now."

"It's still very small," she told him, "but definitely there." She rested her hand against the slight rise, in that almost absent-minded way of expectant mothers.

"Can you feel it?" Mike asked her.

"Oh," she said, as though just realizing she'd been cradling her stomach. "Not yet. Soon though." She smiled, then looked from the table to Michael. "Is all this for the lab results?" she asked, indicating the candlelit meal.

He felt a little silly admitting so, but, "It kind of got away from me."

"I'm glad," she said, sitting down. Henry offered her the end of his tail.

"Hold it, Mama," he requested, "'cause I'm your monkey now, 'kay?"

She took the end of Michael's tie and winked at Henry. "I sent the file to my phone, so we could print it out after dinner," she told Michael.

"May I look too, Mom?" Mike asked. "I asked Dad, but he said I had to ask you."

She glanced at Michael. "A family affair, hmm?" He couldn't quite tell how she felt about this.

"Like I said," he apologized. "It got away from me."

"How can your doctor know things about the baby by looking at blood from your arm, Mom?" Mike asked.

"Well," she said, as they began to eat, "While the baby is in my body, our DNA mixes, somewhat. By drawing a little bit of my blood, we can read the DNA of both people. DNA is like a…recipe," she told him, staring at her pasta. "It tells the whole story, all the ingredients of someone."

Michael pulled up images of DNA strands on his phone, and passed it to Mike. "Cool," he said.

"Dee-in-nay baby," Henry echoed, pausing to carefully pick up his cup. He looked at Michael. "Wif a tail, Dada?"

"We definitely hope not," Michael told him, as Mike laughed.

"One monkey is enough for me," Sara told him, and even though Mike continued to laugh, Henry looked pleased by this. He declared himself done with his dinner, and Michael set him up with his favorite PBS program in the living room, even though TV was never permitted before bedtime. When everyone else finished eating, Sara dug her phone out of her bag and sent the emailed document from Dr. Mills to the printer. When Michael grabbed it from the tray in the library, he realized he was looking at three pages of what Sara had described as a 'DNA recipe': long strings of code were interspersed with medical jargon. This was not a report written in layperson's terms. If he'd thought he was getting a sneak preview of the gender results by retrieving the report for her, he'd been mistaken. The results might as well have been in Greek.

"You might have to interpret this for us," he told her, laying the printed paper on the table.

"Wow," she said, brows knitting together as she bent over it. Michael and Mike both watched as her eyes scanned back and forth, reading the lingo. "I mean, obviously I don't know what _all_ this DNA code means," she said, "but see where it's comparing strands? That's where it's ruling out various genetic conditions." She glanced up at Michael. "All negative," she confirmed for him. "But for the gender results, the chromosome configuration should make that easy to… _oh!_ "

She froze, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "I see it," she breathed. She looked back up at Michael, to gage if he'd spotted this too, but he hadn't. He just stared back at her, waiting for her to tell him. Either gender…he didn't care, so why did it feel like his heart had caught in his throat?

"Well, what is it?" Mike asked impatiently. "A boy or a girl?"

Sara's eyes danced. "Why don't you see if you can spot it?" she told Mike. "It's written in the DNA code, like a puzzle." She pointed to the section he should study. "Males have one Y chromosome and one X chromosome, and females have two X chromosomes."

Michael and Mike both swung their attention back to the paper like this was now a race, and in hindsight, Michael decided they probably saw the answer at the exact same time.

 _"Oh!"_ they both gasped, in the same tone Sara had, only louder. Mike slammed his finger down on the double X, claiming victory. "Girl!" he yelled.

A girl. _This baby is a girl._ Michael still felt tongue-tied, but after a moment, realized he was grinning. Sara grinned back at him, and he pulled her onto his lap, where he could wrap his arms around her. Around both of them.

"Crazy!" Mike exclaimed, after calming down, as though the odds a sister had been as slim as Sara having Henry's monkey with a tail. Michael laughed at him, tugging him against him as well.

"You're not disappointed?" Sara asked Mike. "You said you wanted another brother."

"I thought I did," Mike decided, "but now a girl sounds like a lot of fun."

"It does sound like fun," Sara agreed, still grinning, and Michael kissed her then, un-chastely enough to send Mike scurrying away to find Henry.

"What do you think?" Sara breathed. She looked at him with such earnest anticipation, he he thought he might cry. Which would definitely give her the wrong impression, because he was very, very happy with this news. He told her as much, just as they heard Mike declare to his brother,

"It's a girl monkey, Henry!"

Henry answered agreeably with his usual, "Okay, Mi, we do that, then," and Michael laughed into the curve of Sara's lips.

* * *

By week 15, everyone at the office had been made aware of Sara's pregnancy, as well as Katie (Sara hadn't minded admitting to her that she'd been right, that day in the diner) and Ellie. The latter had been especially overjoyed, actually, which touched Sara: she considered her an extended family member by this time, and was heartened to know Ellie felt the same.

"I know our time with you is limited," Sara had been sure to say, because she respected Ellie's pursuit of her nursing degree. "But we wanted you to be one of the first to know, and if you could use any extra hours this spring and summer, we'll certainly have them to give you, while I'm on bedrest and on maternity leave."

Ellie's face had fallen, as she'd realized that not long after the baby was born, she'd have her degree and be looking for a job as a pediatric R.N. "Oh," she'd said, "But if I can't find a position, maybe I could stay on?"

The last thing Sara wanted to do was stand in the way of Ellie's career, as loathe as she was to lose her. She told her so, but for purely selfish reasons, couldn't stop herself from adding, "But as long as you want to work for us, we want to keep you."

At work, Sara felt some of the fatigue she'd unwittingly experienced in her first trimester slip away, which was convenient timing, as she tackled the directorship. Hiring a new doctor had proved as challenging as Dan had warned, and managing the staff, setting policy the way she wanted it, and ordering supplies and sitting through pharmaceutical sales pitches seemed to eat up almost all her time. The only patients she saw personally now were in the addiction recovery program; the rest she'd had to hand off to her employees. So much for avoiding becoming a 'behind the desk' type director.

Given how much time she spent at said desk now, she supposed it was no surprise that it was there, in her office, that she first felt the baby move. She'd been filing patient reports, ignoring increasingly insistent hunger pangs as she scrambled to finish before lunch. When her stomach rumbled again, her body begging for the granola bar stashed in her desk drawer, she fished it out and ate it as she worked. But then felt it again: or rather, _not_ a rumbling at all, this time, but a light flutter, quick as a stirring of wings inside her.

She stilled, her hands instinctually falling to her abdomen. She knew this feeling, though she'd nearly forgotten it since Henry's pregnancy, since Mike's. _Quickening:_ always so furtive, like a fragment of melody that she couldn't call to mind offhand, but would remember if she heard again. Like a waft of scent, nearly elusive.

She dropped everything and focused, willing the baby to do it again. Two minutes passed, then three, and then… _there._ Another flutter, as subtle as the first time, as soft as a brushstroke. She laughed out loud, both hands on the swell of her belly, staring down at herself like an idiot. She waited another minute, but it didn't happen again, so she picked up her phone and called Michael.

"Is everything alright?" he said as way of greeting.

This was pretty much his standard greeting to her now, but she was too happy to feel irritated. "I felt her move," she gushed, unable to curb the sudden joy that gripped her. "She just moved. The baby," she added unnecessarily.

"Really?" he breathed, with exactly the reverence she'd hoped to hear, exactly the wonder she felt herself. The ever-present worry and fear would catch up to them both, but for a moment, Sara felt as though they'd outrun it. That they had at least a minute, maybe two, of unbridled happiness to immerse themselves in.

"Really," she told him. She tried to describe it, that deep, private stirring of sensation, smiling into her phone, one hand still on her stomach, though she knew she wouldn't be able to feel the baby from the outside of her body yet. Michael asked half a dozen follow-up questions that really had no answers, and they speculated together.

"I want to feel, too," he said, and she smiled again, knowing how frustrated it made Michael to be behind the curve on anything.

"Probably not for another month or so," she reminded him. "Remember when you felt Henry? I was at five months along, at least."

He made an impatient sound. "Maybe it will be earlier this time. You're showing earlier."

She was…she was told this wasn't unusual, for a third pregnancy, but already, she'd shopped for new clothes, having given up entirely on her regular wardrobe.

"Do want to meet somewhere for lunch?" he asked hopefully.

She eyed the stack of files on her desk. "I have to work through lunch," she said regrettably.

"I want you to take it easier," he pressed, "especially with the baby moving now."

She pinched her eyes shut. The fear had found them; it had caught up to their moment, and loomed over them now, a cloud over the sun. "I'm fine," she told him. "I'm just sitting while I work, anyway."

"But you'll remember to eat?" he probed.

"I'll eat," she promised.

The granola bar had actually been enough, but after disconnecting the call, she dutifully swallowed a sandwich, too.

* * *

"Will you do something for me?" Sara asked Michael one evening, as they lay together on the couch a few days later.

Michael paused in scrolling through the Netflix menu, already tensing to rise. "What do you need?"

She hesitated. "Call your brother?"

He slumped back into the couch cushions. "I've tried," he told her flatly.

"What, he won't answer you?" She shifted against him, trying to get comfortable on the couch.

"No, he will," Michael said, moving his arm to accommodate her new position, "but he won't talk about the baby. If I bring up the subject, he changes it."

This sounded crazy to Sara. "What, literally?"

Michael nodded. "When I called to tell him we have a delivery date, he said, 'That reminds me, when's Mike's science fair?'."

"Does he know she's a girl?"

"Nope."

This stung, that Lincoln wouldn't grant them the joy of sharing this news with him. "So he's just decided to bury his head in the sand?" Sara surmised.

"It's like Henry: if he closes his eyes, what he doesn't want to see will cease to exist." Michael paused. "Actually, that's not fair to Henry. He understands basic reality. Linc does not."

She leaned up on one elbow, the better to read Michael's expression. "What's his deal, exactly, do you think?"

"He cares about you very much," Michael said simply. His face remained flat, causing Sara to wonder whether Lincoln was the only one avoiding his feelings. "He's furious at me for risking your health again."

She went quiet, then offered, "I don't think that's it, really, though I know he does care. I think he's more worried about _you_. About what will happen if…if he has to pick up the pieces if…"

"I don't want to discuss this," Michael told her abruptly, like he'd sensed a trap too late.

"But we need to."

He spoke in a whisper. "Please let's not," he said. "I can't."

He looked like a cornered animal, and she relented. "We'll have to, eventually, Michael," she told him quietly. "And maybe, if Lincoln learns we have a plan, that _we_ aren't burying our heads too, he'll feel better."

"it's not my job to make my brother feel better about this," Michael noted stubbornly. "He can get onboard or not, but I can't indulge his negativity." He lay his hands over her stomach. "We're _doing_ this, so I can't wallow in the 'what ifs', Sara. I have to stick to the plan, and make the plan work."

Again, he sounded so much like the Michael she'd known as they'd taken down the Company, his tone took her right back to their earliest days together. Again, she couldn't shake the feeling that he viewed this pregnancy as an operation he could control, with enough of the odds in his favor. With enough wit, guts and know-how.

She lay her hand on top of his, and threaded her fingers through his. "Okay, Michael," she said softly. They'd tackle this his way, for now.

* * *

The first thing Michael's new psychiatrist did was throw his prescription bottle of Paxil into the trash can. Amid his surprise at this move, Michael experienced a little thrill of gladness, hearing it land with a hollow rattle at the bottom of the bin.

"I'm not anti-medication," Dr. Hawthorne clarified, "but based on what you're telling me, and what Kate has noted in her records here, a beta blocker is not for you. Your brain will simply find paths around it, which will entrench the images and situations that lead to your anxiety even more deeply in your psyche."

The doctor encouraged Michael to focus less inwardly and more externally, instead, becoming more proactive with what he _could_ control in his life, instead of worrying over the unknowns. "You're already doing all that's in your power to ensure a healthy pregnancy for your wife and unborn child," he observed, "so let's look beyond that."

"But that's really all that matters right now," Michael told him. It was definitely all he could think about.

"With two young children, and a career that takes a great deal of talent and expertise, I find that hard to believe," Dr. Hawthorne said.

Michael conceded this point, and the psychiatrist said, "Tell me about your eldest son." He consulted his notes. "Michael, Jr."

"We don't call him Junior," Michael corrected, "But Mike is nine. And he's amazing." He smiled. "I can't imagine a better introduction to fatherhood."

"He was six when you came back into his life?"

Michael nodded. "Six and a half." In some ways, those early days of uncertainty and unfamiliarity felt so long ago, ancient history, really, but in reality, Sara still had six years to Michael's three with Mike. He tried not to view it that way, like a chart he could never measure up to, but he couldn't help it: he'd never catch up. This remained his greatest fear, when it came to parenting Mike, and he said as much to Dr. Hawthorne.

"Do you think Mike sees it that way?" he asked. "Because without even meeting him, I can say with near certainty that he does not. Three years is a very long time to a young child. I'd go so far as to venture he would be hard pressed to recall a time you _weren't_ there."

"You don't know Mike," Michael told him grimly. He'd never get that time back with him. Those precious six years had proven to be a sacrifice almost too great for Michael to bear.

"You put a lot on your shoulders," Dr. Hawthorne noted, when he expressed this. "Why do you think that is?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to."

"Actually, no, Michael. Some things can just be broken, can be wrong with the world, without it being anyone's fault or anyone's responsibility to fix."

"That's not the way I like to view things." _Be the change you want to see in the world._ He smiled as Sara's favorite motto sprang to life in his head.

"But there's a difference between wanting to help where there's need, and believing the need is your fault." He raised an eyebrow at Michael. "The latter leads to needing Paxil to get through the day."

"I'm not sorry to see the Paxil go," Michael countered, meeting the doctor's gaze.

"I'm used to getting push-back from patients when I take away their medication, so that's great to hear, but it's important to replace it with a positive coping mechanism. Otherwise, you'll continue to experience the panic attacks, because here's what I'm noting, Michael: your guilt and your anxiety are linked. They're feeding off one another, as you drag more and more onto your plate. When you feel anxious, instead of medicating or focusing inward, with self-blame, I'd love to see you do something outwardly proactive."

"Like?"

"Your wife works closely with a number of social service organizations. Maybe start there."

"A charity? Take on a pet cause?" This sounded like the whim of a petty, privileged person.

Dr. Hawthorne read his expression of distain correctly, and took a different tack. "You were a foster kid growing up, yes?"

Michael nodded. "For a time."

"Was that your fault?"

"Obviously not."

"And yet somehow, I'm guessing you now feel the weight of borrowed responsibility when you think of current foster children in the system, am I right?"

Dammit, he _was_ right. He thought of Sara's colleague, from the party. "We gave a sizable donation to the child welfare office of Cook County this past year," he admitted slowly. "We were invited to their holiday charity auction, too, but I'm still feeling out where my name is welcome in this city, and where it isn't."

Dr. Hawthorne nodded, then chuckled. "For what it's worth, anywhere you're writing a large check, your name will be welcome," he noted. "Let me ask you something. When you were a foster kid, what would have made a true difference for you?"

Michael supposed most former foster children would immediately respond with a more stable or more loving home, but he thought instead of Sable, and how much of an impact going to such a school would have made on him. "Actually, I'm on the scholarship board at Mike's private school, and I've wanted to try to collaborate with the foster system to get a few spots filled there. Should a child in need meet the qualifications required at such a school, of course."

"That sounds like a very promising way to channel misplaced guilt, that may have the welcome side effect of easing some of your anxiety," Dr. Hawthorne approved. "Shall I ask for an update at our next meeting?"

Michael knew what he was really asking: did he want to continue sessions? While he preferred Dr. Kate, perhaps just due to his comfort level with her, he appreciated Dr. Hawthorne's approach. He nodded. "I'll see you in a week."

* * *

"Well?" Sara asked him, when he returned home from that first appointment with Dr. Hawthorne. "What do you think of this guy?"

He shrugged out of his coat, brushing a kiss to her cheek as Henry barreled into his legs in greeting. Sara had left work early to make it possible for Michael to make the session, something she was absolutely willing to do once a week if it meant Michael went back to regular sessions.

"He's a drug-free do-gooder type," Michael told her. "You'd love him."

He smiled at her and she took the jibe like a good sport, glad to see him looking relaxed. "Did he have any advice about Linc?"

"We didn't talk about Linc," Michael told her.

She wanted to ask what they _had_ talked about, but knew that for Michael's sessions to help most, it was essential that he have the freedom to express whatever he needed to to Dr. Hawthorne, without being expected to report back. He read all this on Sara's face, and pulled her against him. "It was good," he assured her. "He has some techniques for me to re-channel some of my anxiety."

She drew back enough to look him in the eye as he told her this, and decided he really did seem more relaxed. "So thank you for coming home," he told her, "because you're right…I needed that."

"Up, Dada!" Henry requested, wanting in on this hug, but Michael just reached down with one hand to tousle Henry's hair. Sara knew he worried about the toddler's squirmy feet too close to her stomach, and sighed. This didn't bode well for her getting a favorable answer to her next question, one she felt she had every right to ask.

"What are the chances," she ventured anyway, "of a little quid pro quo?" He looked at her in confusion, and she added, "Maybe you could practice those new anxiety-channeling techniques while meeting your _wife's_ needs, after the kids go to bed tonight?" It had been too long, Michael always intent on being so damn careful.

She felt the tension return to him, but he made an effort to rebuff it, teasing, "What do you need, a foot rub?"

"No…"

Henry had given up on Michael's attention and moved to Sara, grasping her knee. "Mama, _I_ want you now."

"Do you need a snack? Tea?"

"No…" she whispered to Michael, then shifted out of his embrace to kneel down to Henry. She lifted him up, ignoring Michael's frown. She wanted to prove a point: she didn't need to be treated with kid gloves.

"Do you need a hot bath?"

She considered this option, while allowing Michael to shift Henry to his arms, his little legs wrapped now around Michael's waist instead of Sara's. "Will you be in it with me?"

Michael's eyes warmed to this idea, but their son beat him to the punch. "I will be, Mama," Henry offered. "I be in a bath wif you." He leaned toward her from Michael, pressing his hands to her face while nodding to her earnestly.

She smiled at him, marveling at his perfect lips, his mouth set in serious inquiry, an expression she'd seen mirrored on Michael's face so many times. "Thank you, baby," she told him, kissing his nose. "That sounds like a date." She tapped Michael's (identical) nose with one finger. "You had your chance," she told him.

* * *

Henry didn't forget about their bath date, but when faced with the fact that he couldn't have both Sara _and_ all his bath toys in the tub with him, he opted for the toys. She played from the edge of the tub, sitting on the bathroom floor, elbows-deep in suds.

"You be this guy, Mama," Henry instructed, handing her a plastic pirate, but when she tried to have her assigned figure board the ship floating by the faucet, he said no. "He's a space guy," he informed her, moving the pirate through the air.

"My pirate can fly?" she clarified.

"Yep, this guy does what he wants."

Yes, he certainly did, and Sara loved this. Mike, at this age, would never have allowed a pirate to fly through the air. He still wouldn't; if he were in the bathroom with them right now, this would drive him crazy. Mike would gather all the information possible about the seafaring marauders, then play it by the book, careful to not make mistakes. So would Michael, for that matter. But Henry, despite looking so strikingly similar to his father, was so much freer. He wouldn't let boundaries or rules or expectations stop him, as Sara feared Mike might, one day. Instead, in everything he did, Henry went rogue, falling back on his natural ability to charm when he got himself into hot water. Michael never believed Sara when she said Henry already had this all figured out, but he did. He did.

She played space pirates until her back and knees felt too uncomfortable on the tile floor, then made Henry wash up, the cupfuls of water rinsing his hair causing a tsunami that wiped out the ship. Henry wasn't afraid of dark endings, either. "That's it, Mama," he told her matter-of-factly. "That's the end for them."

"Okay," she laughed. "Brutal."

She wrapped him in a towel and let Michael take over, saving her from the heavy lifting required to wrestle Henry to bed. He disliked bedtime in the manner he'd disliked his car seat as an infant: being confined to his room at night felt as restrictive to him as the seat harness. Released from toddler duty, she went in search of Mike.

She found him at his desk, still pouring over a textbook.

"Time for bed," she told him, at the door, and he glanced up at her, his eyes much like her own, but shining with Michael's intensity.

"I have to get this right, first," he said, pointing at the book.

She stepped into the room, coming up behind him at the desk. "Is it due tomorrow?" She suspected it wasn't even for school at all.

"No," he conceded, "but I don't fully understand it yet."

"That doesn't mean you can't take a break." She laid her hand over the page, folding it down. He let her close the book, though she could tell he didn't like it. "Maybe you'll figure it out tomorrow."

"I won't be able to sleep, with this bugging me," he argued.

"You know, Mike," she said, leaning against the desk, "that's only if you let it."

He frowned at her.

"Do you _want_ to be bugged by this all night?"

"No," he hedged, staring at the edge of his desk.

"Then don't be." He looked at her in bafflement. "Just change the rules for yourself." _Be a space pirate._

He made a sort of scoffing sound, and she ruffled his hair, directing him to bed. "If you don't want to be tortured by something, you don't have to be," she told him firmly. "Look at your brother," she added. "When he doesn't like something, he just…pivots, you know? Switches gears, and doesn't look back."

Mike climbed into bed. "He also thinks rocks are food, Mom," he noted dryly.

She laughed as she cut the light. "You are such a realist, Mike," she said, bending down to kiss him goodnight. "I love you."

* * *

She found Michael in their room, studying a book of his own. "Mike good?" he asked.

"He's good," she said, turned toward the closet to peel off her shirt and find something more comfortable to slip on. She felt his eyes on her, which was encouraging, considering he'd looked as immersed in his book as Mike had.

"Still have any interest in that bath?" he asked her.

She turned to find him already rising, setting his reading glasses on the end table. "Yeah?" she smiled.

He joined her by the closet, running his hands slowly over her bare shoulders and arms, then up her torso. He ran a fingertip absently along the bottom of her bra. "Or we could skip the bath and go straight to bed," he said into the curve of her ear, his voice velvet. The tickle of his breath sent a welcome shiver down her spine.

"Hmm," she intoned. Tough call. "I'm kind of looking forward to the bath now," she decided.

He held up a finger and left her standing there, as he turned into the bathroom. She heard the water start. Then he was back, flipping the lock on their bedroom door before kissing her thoroughly. He reached behind her and relieved her of the bra, then hooked his thumbs under the elastic of her trousers, slowly drawing them off. His hands lingered on her belly — she knew he couldn't help himself — then he slid her underwear off, still kissing her mouth in that same, almost languid way.

He began to steer her backward, toward the steam rising from their bathroom, and she tugged on his shirt. "You're coming with me, remember," she said, and he smiled against her lips, pulling his tee over his head. He dropped his pants at the bathroom doorway, his boxers on the tile by the sink.

She stepped into the tub, which had filled almost completely, frothing with some sort of bath gel he'd added. "Wait," Michael said, grabbing the lavender oil they kept in the cabinet and getting in before her, settling himself against the back wall of the tub. He indicated for her to sit in front of him, her back to his front. She hesitated; she liked to see his face, when they were intimate, but he said softly, "Trust me."

She eased herself down into the water, yielding to a shiver of delight as the warmth engulfed her and Michael's bare body encircled her. He wrapped his legs around her, the already-hard length of him against her rear sending an agonizing tease of arousal to course a steady beat through her veins. "Mmmm," she hummed.

"Nice?" he asked.

"I'd say so," she told him.

He gathered her hair up in his hands and twisted it into a knot, banding it with a hair tie he must have snagged from the vanity, then squeezed a bit of the oil onto his palms. He began to massage her shoulders and neck, and she closed her eyes, finding herself wanting to weep, it felt so good. Maybe Michael and Mike weren't the only ones feeling too tense all the time. He rubbed up and down her arms, then re-applied the oil to run his hands down the sides of her torso, spanning her ribcage, then up, to cup her breasts, his fingers slippery on her pale skin. She felt him sigh against her neck, a slow exhale of contentment that sent an answering pang of satisfaction through her.

"I love your body pregnant," he whispered to her. "I feel guilty loving it, but I do." He circled his thumbs softly over her swollen breasts; when her nipples pebbled in response to his touch, he rolled them between thumb and forefinger, not roughy. Not too gently, either.

She bit her lip. It felt good, in a pleasure-pain sort of way, her breasts still slightly tender. She enjoyed this stage of pregnancy, too, when all sensation seemed to double.

"Talk to me," he requested, his mouth at her ear. "Okay?"

"Yes," she sighed, leaning back against his chest. "Don't stop."

He continued to massage her chest in slow, easy circles, and she kept her eyes closed, feeling like she could float there, against his touch, in the water, for ages. Eventually, his hands moved south, his palms spanning her belly, and he rubbed slow circles there, too, under the water.

"You won't be able to feel her yet," she reminded him lazily, because his hands had stilled, his head bent forward in concentration.

"You never know," he whispered. "I thought maybe, if I made her mother very, very relaxed…"

Sara chuckled. "Well, you're welcome to keep trying."

"Alright," he breathed, allowing his hands to travel farther south. They spanned her hips, then over the tops of her thighs. When he got to her knees, he gently parted them.

"Relaxed, huh?" she murmured, as his palms ran up the inside of her thighs under the bubbles.

"We'll see," he answered. His hands arrived between her legs, and she basked in the dual sensation of warm water meeting sensitive flesh and the welcome press of his finger as he parted her.

 _Ohhh._ Her head fell back against his neck as he stroked her rhythmically, each pass of his fingers under the water unhurried. Sara decided this _would_ be relaxing, it really would, if his touch wasn't stirring her already humming arousal, sending parallel ripples through her and the bath water with each intentional caress.

Her skin had become well lubricated with the oil; beads of it floated on the surface of the water, making everything slick as Michael's hand slid across her, exploring in widening sweeps. She pressed back against him, sandwiched deliciously between his hands and his rock-hard erection, sliding against her ass. _God._

She heard herself moan, her thighs falling open wider, her eyes closing again to focus on each leisurely stroke. How was he keeping this up so gallantly? She thought she might positively fly apart as he massaged and rubbed, massaged and caressed, and she writhed against him, increasingly desperate.

"Come," he invited, practically purring the word into her ear, and she wanted to, they both knew how close she was, but everything was so wet and slick, every touch remained a tease. She reached her arms back toward him, circling her hands around his neck, and this did it, this drew her flush to his body where she could finally grind against him, and _yes._ Michael inhaled sharply, his hands stilling as he cupped her firmly between her legs, pinning her to him with exactly the right amount of pressure. She felt suspended, like a powder keg ready to combust, and then his fingers began to stroke her again, and she imploded, her orgasm shuddering through her like shock waves.

She felt him kiss her shoulder, then her neck, as she recovered, her body floating on lingering sensation. She was weightless. Boneless. After a moment of recuperation, she arched back against him, trying to turn to see his face, and he laughed ruefully, stilling the slide of her hips with his hands.

"I can't take the torture any longer," he confessed.

"Let's get out of this tub, then," she suggested breathlessly.

Michael was quick to agree, and even though Sara still felt limp, she seemed to find herself in their bed in seconds, her body still wet, her skin still slick with oil. He seemed to enjoy this side effect from their bath, running his hands up and over her chest, stomach, and belly, then back around the curve of her hips to slide his palms over her rear. She smiled against his chest, her own hands gripping his biceps, keeping him close.

When he'd evidently decided he couldn't nobly stand this any longer, he tugged her on top of him. She knew why, knew she'd never dispel him of the worry that his weight would somehow hurt the baby. She straddled him, intent on teasing him with a few more agonizing grinds, but when she started to move, he began eying her belly, his gaze intense, his hands reaching out to cradle her.

"It's fine," she told him breathlessly, trying to ignore his trepidation, craving a firmer, more forceful touch from him now, but Michael frowned.

"I'm not sure…"

 _Oh, c'mon._ She remembered what had worked for them last pregnancy, and rolled onto her side, bringing him with her. He held her against him, but they still couldn't find purchase on each other without Michael crushing her belly to him; she slid from him like silk slipping through his fingers. She bit at the corded muscle of his neck in frustration. "Find…a…way," she begged him.

But when he found one, she didn't like it. At all. She started shaking her head _no_ as soon as she grasped where he was going with this, as soon as she found herself on her stomach, her back to him. He guided her knees upward to a kneeling position to lift her stomach off the mattress, and yes, technically, this ticked all the boxes, this sent her rear straight into his groin, letting him grasp her hips firmly, letting him take her with the force _she_ wanted, but putting her on all fours, with her back to him? _No._

"No," she repeated, finally out loud, her body tensing.

"Please try?" he asked, and he sounded breathless, too, his voice tight. This was ticking all _his_ boxes, too, she could tell, but she hated that she couldn't see him. She _hated_ this position. "You liked it in the bath," he pointed out gently, "with your back to me," and she felt the firm press of him against her ass again, sliding against her…a reminder that sent a shiver of pleasure through her.

He felt this, and kissed her, his mouth warm on the dimple at the rise of her butt cheeks. "Michael," she objected. "I don't…I won't like it." She could tell him why, but he wouldn't like _that,_ not at all.

"Are you sure?" he pressed softly. "If you say you're sure, alright. But if you want to try, if you want to trust me, we'll go really slow."

He thought this was just about having her back to him, and it was true she disliked that. She didn't like him looking at her scars, didn't like feeling at a disadvantage, unable to read his expression, but that wasn't all of it. "If you're inside my body," she told him almost harshly, "you should look me in the eyes."

He rolled her back over immediately, abruptly, and knelt over her, his hands now on her face. His eyes burned into hers. "Do you see anything but love here?" he demanded of her. "Anything but respect for you?" She'd injured him, suggesting otherwise, she knew, but he'd literally put her in that position.

Even angered by her words, she didn't see anything but love, it was true. It seared her, actually, and she swallowed roughly. The edge of animosity radiating from him now served to increase her desire for him, actually, further evidence that she was damaged, probably, but she heard herself saying softly, "Okay."

He stroked her face, his indignation fading. "Okay?"

"We can try it your way," she breathed.

He kissed her mouth, slow but hard, then drew her back onto her knees, facing away from him. She tried to force herself to relax as she stared at the headboard of their bed, to trust that he didn't hate her scars, that this wasn't _just_ for him, that he'd touch her only how and where she wanted him to. Of course, she didn't really _know_ how or where she wanted him to, in this position, which was part of the problem.

He ran his hands back over her back and butt in wide arcs, then down the back of her thighs, then back up. He reached between her legs and stroked her the way he already knew she liked, in a familiar slide of of his fingers against the wet heat of her. She felt her hips slide back, the better to nestle herself closer against him. He shuddered, and she allowed space in her head to feel pity for him; he'd been impressively hard now for a very long time. She wanted to give him release. She really did.

"What do you think?" he whispered to her, bending toward her ear, the press of his erection joining the press of his fingers. "Because I think you like it."

His words could have been construed as crude, expect his voice was a caress.

She found herself breathing hard; being unable to see him was undeniably exciting, but… "I don't know," she panted. It was the most honest answer she could give.

His hand stilled, and he said, "We'll just pause then, and you tell me when you've decided."

This level-headed suggestion in such an overheated moment made her gasp a laugh, and laughing shook loose some of her tension, and she pressed back against his hand experimentally. A second wave of pleasure had its way with her.

"Just…touch me? A bit more, first?" she whispered.

She was asking a lot, she knew, but his fingers trailed another slow burn across her, then another, and she bit her lip, marveling at how this had never felt like this before, this position she thought she hated. She ground back against his hand and his groin, until Michael groaned,

"Please?"

"Please," she agreed, and gently, he spread her legs a little wider to finally ease into her from behind, one hand grasping her hip, the other wrapped just under her belly. She waited to feel alarm, or panic, to recall a muscle memory she wanted to forget, but she did not. Michael finally filling her tonight felt incredible, as it always did.

"Talk to me, sweetheart," he reminded her, still moving in her slowly, as promised.

She moaned her approval, mostly inaudibly, rocking back into him in encouragement. His hands gripped her hips more firmly, and then finally, he began to thrust with a groan of his own, moving hard enough in her to satisfy her, to channel the lingering throb of all those teasing touches into a mounting wave. It lapped at her, building, as he stroked in her harder. And then he lifted her hips higher, thrusting deeper, and the peaking wave crashed, flooding her senses, leaving her gasping. She felt Michael tense, and then pour himself into her, practically snarling her name.

* * *

Michael sank into the mattress, Sara still spooned against him, both of them now on their side. He encircled her with his arms, his chin tucked against her shoulder. "Will you tell me now?" he asked quietly.

"Tell you what? That you were right? You usually are….that's nothing new."

"No," he pressed. "Tell me why it was so difficult for you to trust me tonight?"

"I felt vulnerable," she said. "It's a vulnerable position." But she'd hesitated. He heard it.

"You've felt vulnerable with me in bed before," he pointed out. "You haven't reacted like that."

She lifted his hand, cradled to her stomach, and toyed with his fingers, kissing a knuckle. "Remember our first night together, in Ithaca? I was a mess."

He smiled softly. "That was about me. And about turning your back." The mild PTSD had been easy for him to identify. He paused. "This wasn't."

She remained quiet for a minute, then said in defeat, "Do you really need me to tell you who had affection for that position? Who liked me best as a conquest?"

 _How could he not have guessed this?_ Fury sluiced through him without warning, thick and hot. It wasn't jealousy, though he could find that in him, without needing to look very hard. This was anger on her behalf, righteous and pure.

"You shouldn't have let me," he managed, "You should have said no." Then he remembered that she _had_ said no, that she'd tried, at least, and a healthy portion of his fury turned to shame.

She shook her head, her hair brushing his lips. "It was different tonight, of course," she told him. "You're not him," she said in a fierce whisper, "not in _any_ way, and it was unfair of me to compare the, um, situations. Sometimes…" She still fiddled with his fingers, threading hers through them. "Sometimes I'm surprised, how much resentment I still have, against him. Lying just under the surface."

"You're justified," he told her vehemently, squeezing her hand in his.

"I'm sorry it comes up sometimes," she said. "I never see it coming."

He understood this. How often did sudden panic rise up around him, dense as fog, requiring no more than a stir of scent or snatch of sound to drag him back to terrible places? How he hated the knowledge that he'd inadvertently drug _her_ back somewhere unwelcome tonight.

"But then you took me somewhere wonderful," she assured him, squeezing his hand in return. She placed it back on her belly, settling her own on top of it. "Maybe she'll move for you," she whispered.

Michael drew her firmly back against his groin, giving himself permission to fully enjoy having her naked against him in their bed. He massaged the gentle rise of her stomach in slow arcs. "You never know."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Thanks for all your patience...I have been working a lot lately. I know I said I'd be returning to Mike's POV, but not yet I guess. I haven't been able to tear myself away from this instead. Work safe chapter!

Michael decided to purchase first class airline tickets to Cabo San Lucas, a detail he managed to keep to himself until Sara downloaded their boarding passes onto her phone. "I think we got upgraded," she told Michael as they drove to the airport. "We're in Row 1."

For a brief moment, he considered letting her believe this. He _did_ have significant status with the airline, accrued from work, and she already thought he spent too much money on such things. But she'd probably see through him, and besides, this wasn't all he'd splurged on. Best to ease her into it. "I just figured, if you have to endure a five hour flight, you should do it in as much comfort as possible," he admitted.

She reacted precisely as he'd known she would. "Seriously, Michael? _Four_ first class tickets? It'd be one thing if it was just the two of us, but kids in first class?" He knew she was adding up the cost in her head, so he lay a hand on her thigh, stopping her.

"it's just money," he said, which prompted a hard sigh from her. "Plus, think of how nice it will be with more space?" He'd purposely gotten the bulkhead row for precisely that reason. Henry hated being confined in his seat. This way, they'd have more floor room.

She had to concede this point, but added, "I didn't fly first class until I was 30. You spoil them."

"I spoil _you_. Mike and Henry are just along for the ride."

"Just as bad," she told him, but when he glanced sidelong at her, he noted the hint of a smile.

At O'Hare, Michael checked their bags while Sara took everyone to the restroom. "Yes, even if you don't think you have to go," he heard her declare, and smiled to himself. He'd missed Sara's natural metamorphosis to motherhood, but that just made these little moments, when she sounded so parental, even more miraculous to him. Mike had turned to defer to him, dragging his feet en route to the washroom, so Michael added, "Do what your mother says," knowing then that he own metamorphosis was complete.

On the plane, the elderly man seated behind them in first class frowned at the sight of children coming down the aisle, but Michael knew this attitude wouldn't last long. Sure enough, within minutes, he had been charmed into playing peek-a-boo through the seat cushions with Henry, a goofy smile on his face.

"I've never seen such well-behaved kids," he told Michael, before they'd even taken off.

"Give them time," he answered with a smile, and the man's cheery countinence faltered, but only for an instant. Then Henry handed him a used napkin, and he turned to goo again.

Michael put Sara on the aisle with Mike on her other side, giving himself Henry duty. It wasn't an easy gig, and he didn't want her laboring over it.

She slid him a look. "Pace yourself, or it's going to feel like a long week to you," she told him, and he waved her off, ordering her a fruit plate and a club soda with lime. He heard her sigh, but told himself it was a contented sigh.

* * *

At Los Cabos International, the sun hit them square on, seeming to shine off of everything: the concrete parking structure, the metallic roof, the sandy expanse beyond the highway, giving way to an impossibly blue ocean. Henry literally ran in circles as they waited for their car rental, glad to be freed from the prison of the airplane. Then, as they loaded the car, he promptly melted down in a fit of despair upon the realization that he'd once again have to climb into his car seat.

"I'm sitting in the back with you, Henry," Mike promised him. "And I'll tell you when we're almost there. I've been here before."

So had Henry, the year prior, but didn't remember any of it, of course. He calmed down enough for Michael to buckle him in without a wrestling match, and Sara bribed him with crackers and juice as a distraction. Sometimes, the path of least resistance provided the smoothest ride. They exited the airport and hit the road, leaving the sprawl of Cabo's outskirts to hug the coastline. When they passed the vacation rental office they always used, Sara swiveled from peering out the window to inquire to Michael, "Don't we need to check in and pick up our keys?"

"Already have them," he told her, grabbing his sunglasses off the dash and slipping them on before she could further study his face. She got the feeling he was hiding something from her, but couldn't imagine what. They drove about fifteen minutes before turning into the neighborhood they always stayed in, a more secluded, craggy cove just outside town. When Michael pulled into the driveway of the rental bungalow, she concluded what he'd been keeping from her: he'd managed to rent the exact bungalow they'd stayed in their first visit here, when it had just been her, Michael, and Mike. It had been their favorite, and apparently everyone else's; it had been unavailable their past two visits.

She smiled at him, exclaiming, "You got it!"

He smiled back, but his lips twitched first, like something was funny about this. "I got it," he agreed.

He opened the front door as Mike darted past them, slipping through the entryway like a fish, Henry trailing him. "I'll show you our room!" Mike called back to his brother.

Sara set her tote bag down, looking around appreciatively. She really did love this bungalow…with its cozy living room with adobe fireplace, stucco walls and tiled kitchen, it was small enough to feel like a retreat, not an excuse to entertain. It was just large enough, in fact, to be comfortable for their family, and really no more, with space only for four. Well, maybe five, she decided…if they managed to snag this place again in future years, the kids could all share the bedroom Mike currently claimed for himself and Henry. She followed this trail of thought happily, imagining their daughter here as well, a little girl chasing after her brothers. She laid a hand to her belly lightly, as though the child inside her was a touchstone, able to will this future into reality. _Please be alright,_ she thought fervently.

Michael gave the house a thorough walk-through, eyes scanning fixtures and cabinets. When he stepped out onto the back patio to check its stone wall crawling with wisteria and honeysuckle, she figured it was for Henry-security purposes. She started putting things away. Oddly, the large owner's closet, usually locked, was open and empty, so she used the space to stash all the extra child paraphernalia they'd needed to lug to Mexico, like Henry's booster he hated and the stroller she suspected he'd refuse to use.

Michael returned inside, saying something about repairing a chip in the patio flooring by the outdoor dining set.

"Just let the rental management company deal with that," Sara told him. Why he'd want start his vacation with home repairs, she didn't know.

"Well," he hedged, "that's the thing."

"What's the thing?" she asked absently, opening kitchen drawers, trying to find the usual binder of rental information.

He stalled her search with a hand on hers. "I did something without talking to you about it first," he admitted.

He looked marginally nervous, but his eyes shone with anticipation, just as they did when he had a gift he couldn't wait for someone to open. And suddenly, the rental keys in his possession made sense, the unlocked storage closet made sense…

"Michael…?" she inquired slowly.

He grinned then, shaking the house keys in front of her. "It's ours now," he blurted.

"Michael!"

"What else could I do?" he tried. "It was always booked."

"How much—"

"Which means," he continued in a rush, "we can continue to make a good rental income from it, when we're not here. And we can always have it in February, when we want it. If we come every year, it makes more sense to invest in a property, and someday, the kids can have it, and it will become their tradition, too, and—"

"Oh, all right!" she laughed. "You could have just told me, you know."

He hugged her to him, brushing a kiss to her temple. "Sometimes with you, it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission," he informed her.

She just smiled into his shirt collar. She couldn't be angry. Just moments ago, hadn't she been happily imagining their future here?

"Do you think it's large enough?" he asked her, reading her mind. "Because I checked…we could remodel, add a third bedroom, if we wanted to."

She liked it the way it was. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing, to be on top of one another, their children close by. "We'll just string some hammocks on the patio," she told him. "You can sleep out there." She grinned at him.

"Only if you're in one with me," he told her, then snagged Mike as he ran past. "Hey, want to help me caulk our patio deck?" he asked him.

"Course!" Mike enthused, causing Sara to laugh again.

As they looked for supplies in the maintenance closet, she heard Michel telling Mike about the purchase, and his answering whoop of joy. A sudden and unexpected gladness flooded her…Michael was right to buy this house, to do everything in his power to preserve this tradition for them. He was also right that she'd most likely have given him push-back, had he consulted her. She wouldn't apologize for that- _someone_ had to counter-balance Michael's impulse to throw money at things—but in this case, his extravagance wasn't a band-aid. It was, as he said, an investment. In _them._

She found Henry climbing the bunk bed in his room, and managed to coax him down without attempting to climb the ladder herself. Michael would approve. After he and Mike triumphed over the patio, he said, "Do you want to go out to eat, or get groceries tonight?"

She wanted to eat in. And since somehow, grocery shopping wasn't the chore here that it was at home, they all tagged along, roaming the aisles of the colorful market for ingredients. Mike had always been quite proficient at Spanish, and tried to teach Henry words as they found familiar items like milk and juice. Michael added a few of his own, and Sara listened to their happy banter while scanning the shelves for everything they'd need to stock the pantry. This could have been them in Panama, she thought with a jolt. This could have been their life, if Michael had somehow evaded faking his death that awful night in Miami-Dade. If they had been able to flee together, instead of apart. Henry, on his hip right now, grasping his arm, could have been Mike. She stared at him in wonder, shifting Henry before he could stag random produce from bins and shelves.

So often these days, Sara glimpsed the shiny treasure of a second chance.

"What is it?" Michael asked, catching the sudden sense of awe on her face.

"Nothing," she told him. "I'm just…I'm happy."

He flashed her a smile over a display of limes before absently planting a kiss to the top of Henry's head.

* * *

The day they flew home from Cabo, Sara hit the 20 week mark. "Halfway through," she told Michael, taking his hand on the flight. Mike had asked to sit next to Henry, to play trains with him, which they were permitting, at least until someone wailed. She glanced sidelong at this husband of hers, liking what she saw: Michael looked tanned and relaxed, despite insisting on doing the vast majority of the heavy lifting for the past week, as far as parenting duties were concerned.

"Over halfway," he reminded her. "You're only going to 36 weeks."

"I'm worried about that," she told him softly, leaning against his arm. She rolled a hand over her stomach, which had definitely become more distinct. "What if she's not ready? What if she needs more time?"

Michael frowned, a crease jumping swiftly to his forehead, but said, "Dr. Mills will know. You have ultrasounds constantly."

"But why risk it, if I'm doing well?" Maybe it was thanks to their week in Mexico, during which her approved activity list had consisted of only lying in the shade, swimming, sleeping, sex, and eating, but she felt great.

"Because we risk you going into labor naturally after 36 weeks, and if you go into labor, we can no longer control the situation," Michael stated through clenched teeth. It was remarkable, really, how quickly the tension could return to his face. "This is not negotiable," he added…unnecessarily, since his expression already conveyed this perfectly.

She hadn't meant to cause him newfound anxiety, but resented the implication that Michael was the only one being sensible during this pregnancy. Hadn't she just followed his orders all week? "See, the thing is," she tried, running a fingertip lightly over the top of his hand, "I feel like you're only considering my health, whereas I'm considering the baby's."

"That's not true," he answered sharply and swiftly. "I'm considering her." His voice nearly broke on the last word.

Sara took a figurative step back from this stance. They were on dangerous ground, suddenly. "Alright," she agreed quietly. "Then, can we remember we're on the same team, you and me?"

Michael's jaw twitched in more tension. "As long as the _team_ is following the plan, certainly."

"Okay," she said softly. She understood how important it was to Michael to hang onto a semblance of control, and though she felt desperately afraid 'the plan' included narcotics, she decided not to mention this…for now. Instead, to make peace, she said, "Remember the girl name we had picked out before Henry was born?"

He exhaled, as though he too, had decided to expel the lingering tension of their previous subject. She gave him points for trying. "I do."

"Well? Do you still like it?"

"I still love it," he said simply. "It's the only name I want her to have."

Thank goodness. Something they agreed on. "We have to think up a middle name, though," she reminded him. Experimentally, she leaned against him again, and he he adjusted his shoulder so she could settle closer. Forgiven, for now.

"I have some ideas," he disclosed.

"Yeah? Let's hear them."

"Well," he said hesitantly, "what about including Veronica in her name?"

Sara wasn't opposed, but…"I was thinking," she said carefully, "maybe we should save that name for LJ, if he has a daughter one day," she pointed out. They had become very close, toward what became to end of Veronica's life.

Michael agreed immediately. "How about naming her after your mother?" he tried instead.

"It doesn't flow well," Sara objected, after trying it out with their first name.

"Your father?"

She looked at him.

"Frances is a female version of Frank," he pointed out, spelling out the name on a drink napkin on his tray table.

She considered this, taking his pen to add the first name, then Scofield, on the napkin. She liked how it flowed, but then looked more carefully: "Those initials won't work," she observed, with a small smile.

He studied the name and concurred. "Nope. Definitely not."

"Back to square one," she said.

They spent the next hour of the flight doodling on the napkin, brainstorming suggestions. They got nowhere, but by the time they needed to prepare for landing, the crease of Michael's brow had smoothed out again, and he was smiling, despite the fact that Henry had tired of his trains _and_ of his car seat restraints.

"Trade me, Mike," he said, as they were instructed to secure seat belts. Mike slid into his seat next to Sara, so Michael could keep Henry quiet. When Sara glanced over, he had decided to entertain their two-year-old with a paper crane tutorial with their remaining napkins.

She smiled at him.

"He can listen patiently when he wants to," Michael insisted, giving Henry a chance to try. Sara watched him make the first three folds correctly—impressing her—before deciding the napkin now looked like a truck. He rolled it back and forth across Michael's lap until they landed.

* * *

As soon as they returned from vacation, Michael kept his promise to his new psychiatrist, Dr. Hawthorne, and drafted a proposal to present to his fellow Sable Academy board of parents and administration, outlining ways to get Sable's available scholarships in front of Chicago's foster children. The presentation was difficult to assemble, facts and figures about the foster care system detonating like landmines in his consciousness as he researched his cause in his library office at night, and even more difficult to deliver to the board. Michael had thought himself healed from his own foster care experience, if somewhat scarred, but articulating the reasons why an education at a school like Sable could literally change a underprivileged child's life had his voice shaking with emotion.

He was given an available scholarship to fill, should he find the right candidate, but the next step proved even harder. Discussing actual child profiles in the system with Sara's contact at the Department of Human Services brought the challenges of what he was trying to do into sharp focus: the scholarship had to be renewed on an annual basis, but as Michael well knew, children in the system never had control over where they lived in the city, or whether their foster families would support transporting them to Sable's Lincoln Park neighborhood. Then there came the problem of identifying children qualified for Sable's academically challenging program. Many of the kids hadn't been tested regularly enough, or even gone to school regularly enough, to be measured accurately. Michael remembered this well: while he'd always understood the material presented in school, he inconsistently turned in homework, and was often absent on test days.

"It feels completely overwhelming," he reported to Dr. Hawthorne. leaning back heavily against the couch cushions. (Michael disliked this feature of Dr. Hawthorne's office; it made him feel like a cliche.) "So if that was your goal, well done."

"But in the past week, have you had time or emotional bandwidth to overthink Sara's pregnancy?" Dr. Hawthorne probed. "Have you had any panic attacks, sending you back to Yemen in your mind?"

Point Hawthorne: it was true that Michael had been too caught up in the angst of his foster care project to feel his _usual_ angst. "But is swapping one worry or another really the endgame, here?" he challenged. Surely, it would be preferable for Michael not to experience anxiety about _any_ of it.

"I don't think you're wired to be worry-free," Dr. Hawthorne told him bluntly. "The only way you're going to live your live in Zen-like tranquility is to be medicated heavily. I'm assuming you still don't want that?"

Michael shook his head. "Of course not."

"Good." He leaned forward toward Michael. "I'm assuming the psychologist who first diagnosed your LLI explained the way it makes inroads in your brain? Your chemical reactors are firing all the time, in a million directions. We can't change that, but we _can_ channel it. And while I knew it would be tough for you to face some of the facts of the foster program head on, I still think you're happier and healthier trying to do something about it than burying your head in the sand. Which, as we've covered, you really can't do anyway, even if you tried."

Michael nodded. "But sometimes, I can go overboard, trying to alleviate my guilt." A certain full torso tattoo came to mind.

Dr. Hawthorne agreed. "Balance is key. Now that you've started this project, I want to work together to define perimeters to it."

"What type of perimeters?"

Hawthorne shrugged. "Set a timer. Work on this project five hours a week, tops. Thirty minutes a day, max. That sort of thing."

Michael hesitated. When he get into something, he preferred to keep at it until satisfied he'd done all he could.

"But your family needs you, your job needs you, your employees need you," he argued, "and without those people and that income, you wouldn't have the emotional or financial ability to pursue this anyway."

This was true. While he still wasn't 100 percent sold on this guy, Michael appreciated the insertion of reason into his arguments. "Five hours a week, no more," he agreed.

* * *

By the end of the second week of March, Sara had had enough of Lincoln's stupid, stubborn, petty way of handling their pregnancy. He still refused to talk to either of them beyond cursory nods at family obligations, and continued to refuse to acknowledge the arrival of a baby in any way. Because it had become impossible to ignore Sara's growing stomach, he'd decided to stop spending time in their presence. It was ridiculous: life was too short to waste time like this, and in Sara's opinion, Lincoln should know better.

The final straw: Lincoln was a no-show to Mike's science fair. Maybe he thought it would be too hard to make small talk with Michael while pretending Sara was invisible, or maybe he figured they were mad enough at him by this point not to miss him. She didn't know. All she _did_ know was how disappointed it made Mike, and maybe even more importantly, Michael. They could all count on one hand how many family members they had, and no one mattered more to Michael outside Sara and the kids than his brother. No one.

After stewing about this nearly all the way home from work the following day, Sara did an abrupt U-turn, and pointed her car south. Ten minutes later, she pounded on Lincoln's front door. When he answered, he looked startled to see her, and she used this element of surprise to her advantage, shoving him hard in the chest.

"Hey!" he protested, staggering back into his hallway.

"What. The hell. Is wrong with you?" she shouted at him, thumping him in the chest anew on each syllable. Now that she was here, she decided this had been a very good idea.

"Don't piss me off, Sara," he bellowed, fists tight at his sides, face set.

"Or what? What are you going to do?" she pressed in disgust, pushing past him into his house.

He looked like he'd really love to shove her back. "What are you doing here?" he growled.

"Making you realize what an asshole you're being," she said.

He turned away from her. "I'm sorry I don't share your and Michael's misogynistic sense of excitement for the future," he grumbled.

"Lincoln. I'm five months pregnant. You can't ignore this any longer."

"Listen," he said harshly, "I told you, when Henry was born. if you ever did something like that again…"

"Can you try to keep in mind that we didn't plan for this? That in fact, we planned _against_ it? It just _happened_ , Lincoln."

"Can _you_ try to keep in mind that it will _kill_ Michael, it will destroy him completely, if you die?" he shot back hotly.

It was almost a relief, hearing this word that even Dr. Mills danced around, hearing Michael's biggest fear expressed out loud. Sara didn't dare address her mortality directly in his presence. She sat down heavily on Lincoln's couch. "There's a plan," she said weakly. "We have a great medical team."

"I don't care if you have a goddamned magician. You. Could. Die."

"I don't think I'll die," she said slowly. "But you're right, of course, that I could." She looked down at her lap. "And since you brought it up, I thought maybe, since we're both realists and Michael is not, you could help me, with that."

"I don't know a damned thing about it," he bit out.

"I mean…listen." She hadn't planned to address this, not now, not yet, but… "I have a will." A patient of hers had recommended a lawyer to her, since she hadn't felt she could bring it up with LJ. "And I'm putting together some, uh, letters for Michael and Mike and Henry and the baby, for just in case, and—"

Lincoln interjected angrily. "Fuck that, Sara—"

"And it would help me if you could hold onto them for me."

His explicative turned into a pitiful groaning noise and he turned away from her again. "See? This is why I wanted to stay out of all this," he told the wall. "I always have to be the goddamned reaper or some shit."

"I know. And I'm sorry." She wanted to see his expression, but had to content herself with studying his back. "We didn't choose this, Lincoln, I promise we didn't. But we won't be sorry now, either. We already love her. Can you understand that?"

He turned toward her slowly. "Her?" he repeated, cautiously, like whatever Sara said next might jump out and bite him.

"Her," she confirmed. She smiled at him.

He cursed again, this time in defeat. "That's amazing." He sat down beside her, then suddenly breathed a laugh. "What on earth are we going to do with a girl?"

Sara smiled. After LJ, Mike, and Henry, it was indeed a new concept. "Your brother will want your help figuring that out," she pressed gently. "He won't admit it, but all his grand plans end at her birth. He doesn't have a clue what to do next."

"But you do," Linc decided.

"Ha," Sara intoned a tad bitterly. "I loved my mother, but we didn't exactly have a smooth relationship."

"Then you'll do it better," Lincoln insisted.

She laid her hands over her belly. She could feel the baby moving routinely now, quick as a fish. "I hope so," she whispered.

Lincoln sighed. "Alright, tell me how to help, and I'll try."

She patted him on the knee as she rose. "You can start by apologizing to your nephew. Mike really wanted you to see his science project." His face darkened guiltily. "And then you can get your head out of your ass, and be there for your brother. He's seeing a new psychiatrist and seems to have a good handle on things, but he's Michael. He's going to need you."

Linc nodded gruffly. As she left, he added, "Sara, I'm sorry."

She smiled a bit sadly at him. "Apology accepted."

* * *

Mid-March, Mike would have a week off of school for spring break. Walking home from school the week prior, he detailed how all his classmates would be spending the holiday. "Joel is going to Hawaii, did you know that?" he asked Michael, while hopping over an icy mud puddle on the sidewalk. They paused while Henry tried to do the same (landing in the center of it). Michael told Mike he did know; Joel's mother was on the board at Sable with him. "And Jasmine is going to Mexico, but not the part we go to. The Caribbean part. And Josh is going to visit his grandma in Seattle."

Michael glanced sidelong at him while he wiped away the worst of the mud that had splattered onto Henry's face. "Do you feel left out, since you're staying home?" Ellie would be putting in extra hours.

Mike offered a quick smile. "It's okay," he said. "We went to Baja just a few weeks ago."

Michael nodded, but an idea was already percolating in his head. He was going to be away for five of Mike's vacation days, as it turned out, on a job for a client in London. He'd only take one, maybe two more projects outside the country before Sara's C-section date, preferring to stay close to home most of April and all of May, to error on the side of caution. This job might even be his last, until after the baby was safely born.

This would be an easy job, basically just double-checking and testing security measures already in place at the London Eye. The client had even retained the services of a helicopter to aid in mapping the aerial view. That night, he pulled Sara aside after Mike had headed upstairs to do his homework. "What would you think," he asked her, "if I took Mike with me to the UK next week?"

She looked startled, and her brow instantly furrowed. "On a job? No," she said swiftly.

"It's not a risky job," he said. "Obviously." Whatever dangers had sprung to her mind when he made this request was most certainly not accurate.

Her expression softened. "You really want to take him?"

"I'd love to," he told her sincerely. "I don't get to spend as much time with him as I'd like to," he said, "and I think he'd really enjoy this." And perhaps more selfishly, he'd like for Mike to see him in his element; sometimes, he worried Mike saw him only while changing diapers or going to therapy sessions. There was nothing wrong with either, of course, and Michael liked to think he didn't have a huge ego, but…well, maybe he did.

"Of course he'd enjoy it," Sara agreed generously. She studied Michael. "Are you sure it won't be dangerous?"

"Certain. Of course."

She still looked torn. "Is Sucre going?"

"No." He'd be covering some ground work here. "It's not really a two-man job," Michael assured Sara. "Mike can tag along, and we'll have time to sightsee, too." Mike had never been anywhere in Europe or the UK.

"Where are you staying?"

He told her.

"How are you flying?"

He told her. He understood that he'd never taken Mike somewhere on his own before, but… "Sara. I can do this."

"I know," she said quickly. "I know." She glanced down, frowning. "I'm just realizing…he's never been away from me before, for more than a day or two. Never this far."

Michael knew this. He actually wondered if Mike would even _want_ to go, without Sara. He told himself he was prepared for either answer.

"Alright," she said softly. "Why don't you talk to him about it, see what he thinks."

"Yeah?" He smiled at her. "Thank you, sweetheart." He kissed her forehead.

"You don't have to thank me. He's your son, too." But when she looked up at him, he still saw worry in her eyes.

"I suppose we'll always be the overprotective types," he conceded softly.

* * *

He knocked on Mike's open door, and sat down on his bed. "How's it coming?" he asked, glancing at Mike's trigonometry book.

"Fine."

"So listen," Michael said, suddenly nervous that Mike would turn him down. "I had an idea today, but I needed to talk to Mom first, before getting your opinion."

This piqued Mike's curiosity. He swiveled in his chair to regard Michael. "What?"

"I'm going to London next week for work, while you're on break, and I wondered if you'd like to go with me?"

Mike looked confused, which sent a pang of sadness through Michael. Was it so surprising, that he'd invite him? But that wasn't it.

"Just us? Without Mom or Henry?"

"Just us," Michael said.

"Is Fernando going?"

"Just us," Michael repeated. "I think the two of us can handle it."

"Oh," Mike said, and Michael could see his curiosity ramp up a second level. "I can help?"

"I think you can, yes." He smiled at the light that came into his son's eyes at this news. "And after we're done, we can see the Tower of London, and maybe a soccer match."

The light in his eyes positively shone now. "Arsenal?"

"I'll have to check their schedule," Michael hedged. Ten seconds into selling Mike on this idea, and he'd already over-promised.

But Mike's hazel eyes continued to dance. But then he bit his lip. "But without Mom?" he clarified.

"Just us," Michael said again, trying to let that sink in. "Do you want to think about it?" he asked softly.

"No, I know I want to," Mike said swiftly. He beamed at Michael, who felt himself beaming back, but then added, "If Mom is okay with me going?"

Maybe Sara _was_ too overprotective, Michael thought. But he found it beautiful, this relationship she and Mike shared…would hopefully always share. Michael wouldn't let either of them apologize for being so close. "You can talk to Mom, but she told me yes," Michael promised.

"Then…yes," Mike grinned.

* * *

If Sara could have picked any time and place to run into Nika Volek, of all people, it would not have been while standing in the middle of the Lincoln Park Grower's Market on its crowded opening day, of all places, in an oversized flannel shirt that did not flatter either her or her growing stomach, her hair in a sloppy bun that was definitely more 'function' than 'fashion'. But she did not get to pick.

And naturally, Henry had decided upon this very moment to throw a rare tantrum on the ground at her feet. For a brief second, right after they both happened to look up at the same instant and lock eyes, Sara thought Nika might take pity on her and pretend not to recognize her, but no. Nika was too damned nice for that.

"You're Sara Tancredi, right?" she asked hesitantly, a quick, startled smile on her lips. "The doctor who…knew Michael Scofield?" Her accent was less pronounced now, but still there, under the surface of her words.

"Yeah, um, hi," Sara said, fighting the ridiculous urge to do something about her hair. "Nika, God, it's been…so long." Another life. She bent down over Henry, who continued to wail about the oatmeal cookie he'd dropped into the gutter and Sara hadn't permitted him to retrieve, half-trying to keep the bag of greens and peaches she'd bought from ending up on the ground.

When she rose, Nika exclaimed, "Oh, wow, you…" She clearly planned to comment on Sara's pregnancy, but stopped herself, ending with, "have your hands full."

"Yeah." Sara studied Nika while trying to strong arm Henry into standing up. _Why_ was he acting so badly? Of course, Nika looked lovely and composed, aging like Audrey Hepburn or someone, while Sara felt herself sweat just trying to heft Henry off the ground.

"How are you? Good, I hope?" Sara inquired as politely as she could, while Henry whined pitifully. She spotted Mike weaving his way through flower vendors and beeswax candle suppliers to arrive at their side. He looked at Nika curiously.

"Yes, but," Nika said swiftly, "do you know how Michael is? I read so many conflicting things, I didn't know…but now I see his name sometimes, in the paper, and…"

"Yes, Nika, he's here somewhere." She scanned the vendor stalls, but couldn't spot him. She said to Mike, "Go get your father?"

"Why?"

"Just get him."

"Oh," NIka said, as Mike trotted away to find Michael, perhaps putting this scene with these children and Sara together for the first time.

So much had happened since Sara had last seen Nika, since, she assumed, Michael had last seen her, it hadn't occurred to her that the history of their relationship might not be common knowledge to her. Feeling badly about that now, Sara added, "Yes, we uh, moved back to Chicago this year. Have you been here, ever since…?"

"Yes, I've always been here," Nika supplied. She was distracted now, Sara could tell, by the fact that Michael was somewhere nearby. And by Henry, though to be fair, Henry was distracting everyone in a twenty foot radius right now.

"This is your…your son?" she asked, but Sara knew what she was really asking: was this Michael's son?

"Yes," she said, forcing herself to look Nika in the eye, while she'd far rather duck out of here with Henry and his tear-streaked, snotty face and not look back. "And that was our oldest, who just left."

Nika nodded. "That's wonderful," she said, her eye turning to follow in the direction Mike had run. She sounded like she meant it, at least for the most part. Sara reminded herself almost a decade had passed since she'd last cared one iota about Nika Volek, and that with everything that had happened since, the idea of wasting a moment's more emotional energy on her seemed ridiculous. Why had she ever let this woman bother her?

And then Mike returned, and Sara heard him call back over his shoulder entirely too loudly, "I don't know, some lady," and Sara flinched inwardly while smiling apologetically.

Michael strolled up looking every bit as poised and unfettered as Nika, Sara noted, attempting to brush a flyaway strand of hair out of her eyes. To his credit, he noticed her harried look before he noticed Nika, though Sara wasn't sure she should count this as a compliment. He relieved her of Henry before turning to figure out who Mike had been referencing.

"Nika!" he said, in happy surprise, and she flashed an immediate, wholehearted smile. They embraced, Henry clinging to Michael's hip, and Sara was glad, that they both got this closure, that they could all see things come around full circle. Right?

"I'm sorry for all that's happened to you," Nika told him, when they parted.

Sara felt Michael's hand, warm and steady, on the small her back. "Yes, we have had some difficult years." He put a subtle but distinctive emphasis on 'we', and Sara felt a quick swell of gratitude.

She glanced at Mike, whose curiosity pinned him in place between his parents, and told him quickly, "You can go check out that pastry booth now," handing him a five dollar bill. Mike hesitated, torn between an unexpected treat and whatever this was, but the black-and-white cookies he'd been eyeing won out. "Get one for Henry, too," she called. She supposed he'd get his replacement cookie after all.

"I suppose life has been better for me than you," Nika ventured somewhat apologetically, when he'd left. "I've been well, since you helped me."

"I'm glad to hear that," Michael said, but was quick to add, "But I'm very well too, now."

"Still, such struggles."

"Some things are worth fighting for."

She seemed thrown off by this, as though she hadn't meant to imply otherwise. She abruptly changed topic. "I am glad to get the opportunity to apologize, for what happened, when we last saw one another," she told him.

Sara glanced between Michael and Nika, wondering when that might have been. "The day Bellick caught up with us, right after the escape," he supplied for her. "The day I learned you had—were in the hospital."

 _Not_ what Sara wanted to be reminded of right now. Or rather, wanted Michael to be reminded of. She just nodded.

"You remember it by what had happened to your doctor," Nika observed, with another quick acknowledgement of Sara, "and I remember it as the day Michael Scofield turned me down." She smiled sadly at them both. "I'm sorry about the gun," she added quietly.

Sara raised an eyebrow, but Michael just said, "It was a long time ago. And a tense situation." Mike returned with two cookies and a few bucks change, and Henry wiggled out of Michael's arms, intent on getting his share. "Apology not needed, but appreciated," Michael said, then added, with a gentle air of finality, "It was good to see you, Nika,"

She took her cue, and nodded. "You as well. Both of you." She glanced around, as though searching for a reason to make an exit, then just said, "I'm going to go."

"We should get going, too," Sara told Michael softly. He lifted Henry again, to expedite their progress on the short walk home, a hand on the top of Mike's head to steer him through the crowded market.

"Listen," he told Sara, but she cut him off with a glance toward Mike.

"We can talk later," she told him, but she knew she didn't really want to. She didn't need reassurances from Michael, and didn't particularly want explanations. Generally she preferred not to think about Nika at all. But he glanced at her with concern, and she knew she'd probably get both sooner rather than later, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

She managed to avoid the subject until that night, and tried to avoid it even then, turning in early. But Michael crawled into bed beside her, spooning himself against her back.

"Is she moving?" he asked her, hands already on her stomach. The baby tended to be most active at this time of day, or maybe Sara simply noticed it more while she lay still. Every night, Michael hoped it would be _the_ night he felt their daughter's small kicks and rolls. She guided his hand under her t-shirt, pressing it to the spot she thought he'd have the best luck.

He rubbed her skin in slow circles there, and said, "You know she was only part of the plan."

"Yes, well." Sara said simply. When he remained silent, waiting for her to comment further, she stated the obvious. "So was I." To soften this, she added, "And yet, here we are."

"Yes. Here _we_ are. You and me, Sara."

"I know." She didn't like talking about Nika because it was hard for her to identify why the woman got so easily under her skin. She always had, of course, and this irked Sara, because she liked to think she wasn't the jealous type. Maybe, she decided, she had only felt territorial back in Fox River because Nika's presence had collided so devastatingly with Sara's emerging and frightening feelings for Michael?

"What are you thinking?" he entreated.

She concentrated on the feel of his fingers tracing gentle circles over her skin. She wished the baby would move for him. "I guess I'm thinking I don't like running into your ex. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that."

"She isn't an ex, because our marriage was never real," he reminded her.

She supposed their score was one to one on disingenuous marriages, though she wasn't so blind as to think that made them even. What she had done, marrying Jacob… She knew she had no right to complain about Nika. "I know," she reassured him simply. She set her hand back on top of his, shifting his palm lower on her abdomen. She'd just felt a tiny hand or foot flutter there.

She reminded herself that Nika represented only a tiny portion of Michael's pre-incarceration self, part of the plan, not part of his actual life, as he'd said. They didn't talk much, if at all, about relationships they'd had before meeting at Fox River. Sara assumed two things: that Michael could have had just about as many women as he'd wanted, but that he probably hadn't wanted too many. Given his penchant for perfectionism and exacting standards (in himself) she guessed the relationships he'd had had been exactly that…relationships. Not flings. Not one-night stands. Not Michael.

Sara's main relationship, however, had been a rather unhealthy one…with herself. The result: sex as a band-aid or distraction when she was younger, boyfriends for convenience, not love. Honestly, if they were to have the famous 'what's your number' conversation, she assumed hers would be higher. She hoped to never have this conversation, actually, because here and now, her pre-Michael history no longer mattered. She reminded herself it went the same for him. She exhaled slowly, letting her uptightness about Nika go.

This shift in her diaphragm did the trick: the baby rolled, a quick tumble in her womb, and Michael gasped out loud, laughing in surprise and triumph. She celebrated with him, smiling to the feel of his kiss on her cheek, both his hands now palming her belly. She let herself nestle into the cocoon of his body, wrapped around her in an attempt to get as close as he could, listening to him whisper a plea to their baby to move for him again.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Work safe, chapter!

Michael and Mike's flight from O'Hare to Heathrow was just under nine hours. Michael hoped their 10 pm departure would lend itself to some sleep in flight, and slightly less jet lag, but instead, Mike stayed up half the night, studying the maps and guidebooks he'd brought in his backpack.

"Bud," Michael said, sometime around midnight Chicago time, "you should try to sleep for a while." The entire cabin was dark, their fellow passengers snoozing or at least dozing to the movie and music selections.

Instead, Mike asked, "What's the name of our hotel again?"

"The Corinthia," Michael reminded him. He pointed on Mike's map. "In Whitehall, right here, near Trafalgar Square."

"Oh, okay," Mike said, tracking the spot with his finger. He had to squint to see his map in the dim light emitted from the overhead reading light.

"Want your pillow?" Michael tried.

"Nah, I'm good," Mike said. "Where's the London Eye again?"

Michael traced a line across the Thames from their hotel to the iconic London landmark. "We should be able to see it from our room," he said.

"Cool."

"You can open up that blanket," Michael suggested next, but Mike didn't even glance at the offering from a hopeful flight attendant, opening one of his guidebooks instead.

"Will we have time to go to the London Zoo?" he asked.

Michael thought about this. "That's in Hampstead, which is North London, but it's pretty close to Regent's Park and Camden Market, so we could maybe make a day of it," he told him.

"And the Tower of London, and Buckingham Palace, and the Harry Potter studio tour?"

Michael smiled. "You might need to make a few tough choices."

Mike bent more studiously over his books.

When he finally surrendered to sleep, his head heavy against Michael's shoulder, they were nearly all the way over the Atlantic, no more than two hours from London. Michael had a 10 am appointment to meet with engineers at the Eye, so he supposed they'd both be powering through this day on very little sleep.

It physically hurt Michael to wake Mike up once they'd landed, his son was sleeping so soundly. He stumbled through the terminal, and then through customs and immigration, and by the time Michael had hailed a cab outside Heathrow, he was literally falling asleep on his feet again.

"Mike, it's morning here, even thought it feels like night to you. I know it's hard to stay up, but if you do, you'll be on London time faster."

"I just…wanna…sleep…Dad," Mike said, slumping against him again, his head falling to Michael's lap in the back of the cab.

"Look out the window," Michael pressed. "I can see the Thames."

But Mike was already fast asleep again. Michael texted Sara a quick _Made it safely_ , with a photo of Mike passed out in the cab. It would reassure her to have an update when she woke up in the morning.

When they arrived at the Corinthia, Michael nudged Mike to wake him as gently as he could. He was almost ten years old…he couldn't very easily carry him into the hotel, and he really did need to wake up. They'd go downstairs for breakfast, Michael decided, then walk the few blocks to Big Ben, then across the Westminster Bridge to the Eye. The foggy London air would serve as a needed boost for both of them.

Mike protested at first, but warmed up to the idea of being conscious once he saw the spread of scones, bread, jam, porridge, and breakfast meats downstairs. He felt a little better after eating, he reported, and when they set out for their walk to Michael's meeting, he was once again in good spirits.

"Did you know Big Ben was built in 1844, after a fire destroyed the original Palace of Westminster?" he asked Michael.

Michael did not know that. Nor did he know that the original bell built for the clock tower cracked in half before use, but Mike did.

"Do you think parliament is is session?" he asked.

Michael was starting to feel very uninformed. "I don't know," he had to say again. Knowing Mike as he did, Michael decided he only had himself to blame for not arriving in London better prepared to answer trivia. But as Michael met with his clients about the Eye, Mike fell silent, observing the conversation that took place like a spectator at a tennis match, eyes darting between Michael and the engineers responsible for the Eye, taking in every word.

"Is it 'take your child to work day'?" one of the engineers joked, when Michael introduced Mike.

"Something like that," Michael replied pleasantly.

Once they all got over the fact that a nine-year-old would be observing their meeting, they got down to business, and took Michael and Mike into the control room behind the Eye loading area, to go over the operating procedures.

"Mike, stay close," Michael instructed, when Mike started to wander, ducking behind the adults to check out the mechanisms that turned the wheel.

Mike frowned, but did as he was told. But when conversation paused, he said, "Excuse me?"

One of the British engineers smiled indulgently at him. "Would you like a ride on it?" he asked, pointing up at the impressive wheel.

"Yes please, but…I also just wanted to say, if you made the teeth of this bull wheel 1/2 of a millimeter closer together, you could load passengers into the wheel at 18 percent faster capacity. Then the line, I mean, the queue, wouldn't take as long."

Michael tried his best to hide a smile, he really did. The engineer sputtered for a second, then said, "Well, perhaps."

"No, definitely," Mike insisted solemnly. "Either 18 or 19 percent, for certain."

Michael laid a hand on his shoulder while the engineers stared at Mike in disbelief. "That advice you get for free," he smiled diplomatically.

Mike peered up at him in question, so when they had a second to themselves, he explained to him, "They hired me for security measures, so anything you notice about efficiency is a separate matter." He'd rather explain it this way than have to break it to Mike that the engineers weren't going to take his suggestion seriously, though they certainly should. Michael hadn't done the math, but predicted that Mike was absolutely right.

They took a ride on the wheel, then Michael took calculations for a few minutes before their helicopter pilot arrived to take them on an aerial survey. Mike bounced on his heels awaiting the ride, and when they ascended into the air, the smile on his face made Michael wonder why he hadn't brought him on a work trip much sooner.

"Your job is cool, Dad," he said breathlessly into his headset, craning his neck to peer out all over London as the chopper circled the Eye.

* * *

They grabbed a ride back across the river to tour the Tower of London in the afternoon, stopping in at a small tea shop for sandwiches first. Michael knew Mike was tired, but if he could push through today, he'd best the jet lag. While they ate, Mike said hesitantly, "Can I call Mom?"

Michael set down his sandwich. "Are you feeling a little bit homesick for her?" he asked. "Because it's okay if you are."

Mike nodded. "Only when I think about it."

Michael did the math in his head, and said, "We can call her at dinner, alright? Right now, it's still the middle of the night in Chicago." He smiled at him. "Which is why your eyes still keep trying to close."

"Oh, yeah," Mike said. "It's a different day here, too, like we're in the future." They discussed the International Date Line for a while, and Michael pointed out that Greenwich Mean Time was measured right here in the UK, at the Royal Observatory.

When they'd finished eating, he said enthusiastically, "Ready to see the Tower?" Touring the high cells where prisoners had been incarcerated would probably fascinate Mike, Michael thought wryly, and seeing the Crown Jewels would keep his mind off missing Sara.

"Anne Boleyn was held and executed here," Mike read a few minutes later, off the brochure they'd been handed at the ticket window. He looked at Michael. "Who was she?"

"She was one of Henry VIII's wives," Michael told him.

" _One_ of them?" Mike asked.

Michael raised an eyebrow "He kept killing them off."

Mike pondered this, peering up at the tower as they snaked through the queue to get in. "But you could have gotten her out of here, I bet," he ventured, surveying the stone walls.

Michael laughed lightly. "I don't know about that."

Once they got inside, Mike speculated further. "Yep," he decided, "this old castle must have lots of secret tunnels and passageways. It'd be easy."

"It's never easy," Michael said, then bit his tongue. He didn't entertain discussion of prison breakouts anymore, and certainly not with his son. But it was too late; Mike's curiosity was peeked.

"Why wouldn't it be easy, Dad?"

Michael stared up at Anne Boleyn's famous tower window. "You'd not only have to get up there, but also back down, with her," he said slowly. "To break someone out, you need mobility on your side." Mike just studied him, so he elaborated, "You need to be able to move from place to place, and for her to leave her cell, able to get into other parts of the prison proper." He wasn't thinking of Anne anymore; it was Sara, in Miami-Dade he saw in his mind, his need to move her to the garage, to the chapel. He pushed the memory away, and said to Mike, "It's like chess, right? You have to keep moving your pieces on the board. If you stay still, you can't win."

Mike nodded. "And Anne Boleyn never got to leave that room, I think," he observed, reading the brochure. "So…" He made a slitting motion with his hand across his throat, and Michael grimaced.

"Let's talk about something else," he said.

They'd arrived at the entrance to the room housing the Crown Jewels…a great distraction, or so Michael thought, until Mike said too loudly, "You could probably steal these no problem, right Dad?"

"Shh! Mike! No."

"But I mean, if you wanted to."

"The jewels are very secure," Michael said definitively, for the benefit of the tower guard at the doorway who had begun eyeing them.

"But no room is 100 percent secure," Mike insisted. "You always say that."

The guard lifted his radio and said something into it, and Michael said very sternly, "Michael, we will talk about this later."

Mike fell silent at the reprimand that was his full name, and they toured the rest of the tower without incident. But when they eventually walked back outside into the gray London day, he said, "Why were you mad in the jewel room?"

"I wasn't mad," Michael promised. "But we were going to get in trouble, talking like that, near the jewels."

"Why? They don't know they could be stolen?"

"They know, and that's why they have so much security around them."

"Maybe they need your help to make them even more secure," Mike said loyally.

"I'm certain they're as secure as they can be," Michael smiled. He glanced at Mike. "And even though you're curious, sometimes you'll need to learn to hold your questions until later," he said, "so you don't alarm people. Remember when you wanted to know all about terrorism, when we were on the plane that one time?" _That_ had been interesting. "It scares people. This is the same thing: you can't talk speculatively about robbing England while you're standing in front of their most precious treasures."

"Oh," Mike answered flatly, like this was a completely foreign concept. "Huh."

Michael just smiled, and took his hand.

At the souvenir shop by the exit, Mike eyed a display of buttons with the emblem of the tower on it. "Is that all you want?" Michael asked.

They had all sorts of overpriced stuff in here: toy swords, costume jewelry and crowns, and… _oh._ A whole pyramid of stuffed Paddington bears in tower guard uniform. Another unwelcome memory slammed into Michael, this one possibly even more painful than remembering Sara incarcerated. The last time Michael had been in London, it had been for Poseidon, before Michael had been framed and sent to Yemen. Mike had been one year old, maybe one and a half, living, Michael knew, in Panama.

Walking down Regent Street, he'd glimpsed a display of Paddington bears in a window at Hamley's, and on impulse, gone in to buy one. But when he'd emerged back onto the busy street, he'd simply stood there, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now, with a teddy bear he couldn't give to his son. He'd tried to offer it to a passing woman pushing her baby in a pram, but she'd looked at him suspiciously before hustling away. Immediately, Michael had seen himself as she must have seen him: a grown adult, probably a bit ragged, holding a child's toy, with no child in sight. No wonder she'd hurried on, refusing the bear. In the end, he'd left it sitting on a bus stop bench, forlornly awaiting a new owner. Michael liked to think some small child found it, that it made some boy, even if it couldn't be his boy, happy.

"Dad?" Mike prompted, tugging on his arm. He must have asked something.

"Do you want a bear?" Michael asked him impulsively.

Mike turned to study the display of Paddingtons. "Not…really," he said diplomatically, picking up on Michael's odd interest in them, "but Henry would like one, I think."

Yes, yes he would. Michael bought the biggest one he could reasonably stuff into his luggage, and arranged for it to be sent over to the Corinthia.

* * *

To stave off sleepiness, they walked back to the hotel in the late afternoon, breathing in the chilly air along the river. They didn't have to share the walkway with too many other pedestrians on this cold March day; Michael noted only one other gentleman behind them, walking briskly in an overcoat and suit. Mike paused often to look down at the gray water or use one of the viewing scopes along the walkway, so they made slow progress, but Michael noted that the man never passed them by, despite his purposeful gait, hovering just behind instead. When Michael glanced at him, he looked intently back before breaking eye contact.

Alarm ran up Michael's spine, sharp and bright, immediately chasing the sleep deprivation from his brain. Without saying anything to Mike, he scanned the street ahead of them, then along the storefronts hugging their left, his eye tracking across each shadowed doorway and side street. No one else loitered, that he could see.

The man continued to gain on them slowly. Deliberately, Michael thought. He glanced at Mike, stopped to study the passage of a tug boat down the river. "Hey bud? Let's keep moving," he said, taking Mike's hand again firmly in his own.

But not two minutes later, the man was almost directly behind them. Michael's heart pounded in his chest, and he had to push hard against the panic that swelled, wanting to consume him. Sara's reservations about allowing Mike on this trip nipped torturously at him. What if she'd been right? What if it was extreme folly, exposing his son to what he does for a living, when Michael had turned down so many jobs from desperate people? People who would love nothing more than to take advantage of this gift Michael so recklessly presented to them by traveling with Mike…ready-made leverage in the form of his child.

And then the man took a few quickened steps to catch up completely, and tapped Mike on the shoulder. Michael yanked Mike away roughly, spinning on the stranger.

The man looked startled at Michael's hostile expression. "I think…I think you dropped this," he stammered, holding out the souvenir pin they'd purchased at the Tower. He glanced fearfully at Michael and added hastily, "I was trying to decide if you were the people I'd seen buying it."

"Thanks," Mike said, reaching for the pin, but Michael blocked his hand from accepting it, taking the pin from the man himself, his other arm keeping Mike firmly behind him.

"Thank you," he echoed, still staring at the man hard.

The gentleman turned away with a disgruntled look, mumbling something about no good deed going unpunished. Michael felt a stab of regret, and called out after him, "I'm sorry," but the stranger only waved a hand dismissively in response.

He exhaled hard, feeling his pulse rate slowly descend from a frightening high, and pressed the pin into Mike's palm. Mike stared at him.

"Why did you grab me like that?" he asked in a small voice.

"I didn't…I didn't mean to," Michael said faintly. He glanced over at a bench overlooking the river. "Come sit down with me. Let's just…take a moment."

"I thought you wanted to get going," Mike countered.

"Not anymore." He sat heavily on the bench, inviting Mike beside him. "I'm sorry I grabbed you." His eye fell to his arm. "Are you alright?"

Mike nodded. "I'm fine."

"That man made me nervous, and I didn't want you near him."

"Why? He was trying to be nice."

"I know that, now." He looked at Mike, torn between helping him understand and wanting him to never understand. "I've learned to be very careful, maybe too careful…suspicious, even," he said slowly. "But if I'm not, the consequences are just too great."

"I don't know what you mean," Mike said in frustration. He hated not grasping something right away, Michael knew.

How to put this? "Sometimes, when I turn down a job I don't want to do—"

"Like for a prison?" Mike interrupted.

"Yes, like breaking someone bad out of a prison," he clarified. "When I won't do that, sometimes, the person trying to hire me doesn't want to take no for an answer."

"But if you don't want to, they can't make you," Mike reasoned. "You're a grown-up and don't have to."

Michael nodded slowly. "That's true, but in my experience, Mike, there are ways to motivate someone to do something." He paused. "Three, I think, actually." He listed them off on his fingers. "Money, love, and fear." He looked out over the Thames, letting his eye rest on a duck bobbing on the water by some pilings, up and down. "When I refuse a job, I'm usually offered more money, but money doesn't motivate me."

"And you can't be motivated by love, because you don't love them," Mike supplied.

He turned from gazing at the duck to meet Mike's eyes. "But I love _someone_ , right? I love you. I love your mother and Henry. So then, perhaps, I can be motivated by fear."

Mike stared back at him.

"Because if someone threatened any of you, I would do anything, break anyone out of anywhere, motivated by fear and love for you," he explained bluntly.

Mike's eyes pinned him intently. "You would?"

"I would, and I _have_ , and I would again, yes. Though I hope to never need to."

Mike remained silent for a moment, eyes narrowed in thought. "So when that man reached out to me, you thought he wanted to take me or hurt me so you would do something for him?" He worked through this slowly, like it was a crazy concept. Which Michael wished it was, of course.

He sighed. "I didn't know….I just didn't know."

Mike slipped his hand into Michael's, and squeezed. Michael looked down at him, unsure what he was thinking, worried he'd alarmed him, or perhaps lost respect with him. But when Mike spoke, he surprised him.

"It's pretty hard to be you, isn't it, Dad?" he observed solemnly.

Michael breathed a soft laugh. "It can be, sometimes," he admitted. He pulled Mike closer, kissing him on his chilled forehead. "But you make it better, you know that, right? So much better."

Mike nodded, offering a self-conscious smile before ducking his head again.

"Let's get out of the cold," Michael suggested, offering him a hand up from the bench.

* * *

They ate an early dinner in the Northhall restaurant downstairs from their room, but its chic marble fixtures and elevated cuisine was lost on both of them, they were so tired. When Mike started nodding off into his heirloom tomato and basil bisque, Michael checked the time and deemed it close enough. "Let's try Mom," he suggested, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

This perked Mike up; he hit the FaceTime app, saying, "Wait 'til she sees this fancy place."

Sara picked up right away; they must have caught her in her office, not with a patient. Michael smiled at the sound of her voice while Mike commandeered the screen. "Hi, baby, how's London?"

"Great! We're eating dinner, even though it's still morning there." He swung the screen around in a wild arc that probably made her nauseous.

"What did you do today?"

He walked her through the highlights, ending with, "And Dad almost punched a guy."

"He what?"

"Mike!" Michael chastised.

"But it turned out he was just giving me back my button."

"Who, your dad?" Sara sounded confused, but also distracted; someone had momentarily interrupted her, bringing her something at her desk. Michael figured the timing worked in his favor.

"Never mind," Mike told her. "The best part of today was the helicopter ride."

They talked about that for a moment, then Michael heard Sara say, "Hand me over to your father."

Mike passed the phone, and Michael smiled at her. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'm great," she told him. She looked a bit tired, but otherwise seemed to be telling the truth.

"Did Ellie stay the night?" She'd told Michael she'd be happy to.

"I sent her home after dinner," Sara said. Before he could protest, she added, "I miss Henry during the day. It's nice to have the time with him."

Because it was hard to argue with this, he just said, "Try to take it easy, please."

"Of course," she told him, but she'd turned from her phone; the same person was back in her office with another question. "I've got to go," she said apologetically. "Everything is good there?"

"It's great," he assured her. "I love you."

"Love you," she told him. "Mike? I love you." But Mike had begun to doze again, cheek on his napkin on the table.

"He says he loves you," Michael smiled, before disconnecting the call and signaling for the check.

* * *

Sara woke the next morning to the same sound she'd been hearing since Michael and Mike left for London: Henry, whimpering pleas as he stumbled out of bed and wandered the house. "Dada? Mi? Dada?"

It was both pitiful and a bit insulting, because when he saw Sara instead, he sighed laboriously, as though trying to muster the energy to greet yet another day with just his mother.

"Remember, they're on their trip, Henry," she told him for the dozenth time. "But we're going to make breakfast, and then Ellie will be here, and you're going to have a fun day."

"Fun day without Mi?" he asked suspiciously, like she was trying to trick him.

"Even without Mike, it _could_ be fun," she said firmly. Miracles happened every day. "Today is library story time hour," she reminded him.

"Wif Ellie?" he confirmed.

"Yes, with Ellie. Mama has to work."

"Work wif the baby?" Henry asked. He looked at her in abject question.

"With the baby, yes," Sara confirmed. Henry was perpetually confused. He _knew_ there was a baby, because everyone talked about her, but couldn't seem to fathom why he never saw her, looking around him like maybe he had just missed her every time she was mentioned. No matter how many times they explained that the baby was still inside of Sara for a few more months, he just couldn't conceptualize it. They'd even brought him to an ultrasound, which he'd watched happily, like he was viewing a movie completely unrelated to his mother.

"Everywhere I go, the baby goes, until she's born," she explained again now.

Henry smiled at her like she'd made a joke. "Ha, ha, Mama."

She just smiled back at him, kissing the top of his head before fixing his breakfast. While they ate, she checked her phone for an update from London. Sure enough, Michael had sent her an email in the night—their morning—with a few photos from their first day, and a brief outline of their plan for their second day. Michael had one more meeting with the engineers at the Eye, then they planned to see the changing of the guard and then cross to Borough to see the Globe Theater and the food market there. She was just thinking it sounded like an ambitious itinerary when Michael ended with a photo of Mike studying the Tube map of the city. _He has it all planned out,_ he wrote.

She smiled, knowing they were already mostly through their day at this point, and she'd get a report in person soon. She showed Henry a few of the photos. "This is where Mike is right now, with Dad, and they'll be home in just a few days."

Henry studied the images gravely, looking very put out.

Ellie arrived a bit late, with an ominous report on crosstown traffic, and Sara hustled to get ready for work. Usually, Michael oversaw Henry's morning, and if traffic was as bad as Ellie said, she'd be late. In her haste, she almost decided to skip a final bathroom break, but if she'd be sitting in traffic, and given how often she had to pee these days…she trotted back up the stairs, promising herself she'd be quick.

But then she tugged her pants down and stared in disbelief at the cotton liner of her underwear and knew her entire day had just shifted completely off course.

Blood. Not a lot of it, just a fine spray of spotting, but it was bright crimson and wet and oh my God, how had this happened? When? Why? She sat there on the toilet, trying not to panic, pinching her eyes closed against tears already forming behind her lids. _No, no, no, no._

Very carefully, she experimentally wiped herself and the toilet paper turned crimson, too. She choked back a sob that threatened to burst from her chest, and called out, "Ellie?!"

She heard her come up the stairs with Henry. "You'd better get a move on," she called back, once they'd arrived on the landing outside her bedroom.

Sara said as calmly as she could, "I need you to get me something…a maxi pad, they're in the supply cupboard with the toilet paper in the hall."

Silence. Then, "You need…? Sara?! Are you alright?"

"Yes, I think so. I don't know," she choked, starting to cry despite telling herself not to.

Ellie was running now. The cupboard door opened and slammed closed, and she appeared breathless, at the bathroom door. She hovered there, like she wanted to give Sara privacy, and Sara said, "I don't care, just bring it to me. And my phone. I need my phone."

Ellie ran back down the stairs for the phone, while Henry wandered into the bathroom. "Mama? Is it story time?"

"Later," she managed, taking a sharp breath to curb her emotion. She needed to stay calm. "Go get your shoes, Hen." Maybe he'd actually do it, and save them a few minutes' time.

"Swoosh shoes?" he asked, referring to the Nikes that looked like Mike's.

"Sure."

He ran out, and she applied the pad and pulled up her underwear and pants gingerly, standing slowly. She didn't want to move at all, she wanted to just lay flat on her bed, but she wanted Dr. Mills more. Ellie arrived back and handed her the phone breathlessly, and Sara said, "I'm going to have to go into the OB office, or maybe…I don't know…Northwestern." She remembered that Mills used Northwestern.

Ellie already had her keys in her other hand. "I'll drive. Henry's car seat is already in my Toyota." She looked at Sara fearfully. "Is it bad?" she whispered.

"I don't know," Sara told her.

Henry failed to produce his shoes, but Ellie loaded him into his seat without them, deaf to his wail of protest. She did remember his jacket, which she threw into the backseat, and two of his favorite trucks, which she deposited in his lap. These temporarily quieted him while Sara called into Dr. Mills' office.

When she got the receptionist, she said, "Don't put me on hold," with uncharacteristic impatience for a colleague in the medical profession, because it was almost 8 am…prime hour for appointment calls to tie up the line. She was put through to the doctor with merciful swiftness, and was explaining the situation to Mills before Ellie had turned out of the neighborhood.

"I want you to go straight to Northwestern," Dr. Mills said, confirming Sara's fear that this was serious. "I'll meet you there."

This was good, however, as they'd be going in the opposite direction from the commuter traffic. She called work next, letting her own receptionist know she wouldn't be in today. "Dr. Howard can fill in for my 9 o'clock, and we'll have to move the budget meeting back to next week," she said, explaining that she'd be at Northwestern for some tests.

"Is everything alright?" Stacy asked.

"Yes," Sara told her firmly. "Everything will be fine."

* * *

At the hospital, Sara let Ellie walk her in, then told her she could handle it solo from there. When Ellie protested that she was here to help, she said, "It would honestly help most if you'd take Henry to story hour at the library. I've kind of talked it up this morning," she added. "And I'll actually worry less knowing he's happy and occupied."

This convinced her, and when they departed through the double glass doors, Henry waving behind Ellie's shoulder, Sara exhaled…it was a relief to finally be able to concentrate solely on the baby. Dr. Mills was waiting for her, as promised, and got her straight into a room. "I want a nonstress test right away," Sara told her. "I want to make sure she's alright."

"I know," Mills agreed, ordering the test before giving Sara a physical. "Any pain?" she asked. "Cramping? Aching?"

Sara shook her head no. "I feel great," she said. "This doesn't make any sense."

"No sharp pull, a tight feeling, like a tugging?" she pressed.

"No. Nothing."

"And you think this is all of the bleeding, just this morning?" Mills asked.

"I'm certain." And there was good news: upon changing into her hospital gown, Sara had noted the bleeding had stopped on its own. "But what if it starts again? And why—"

"You're jumping ahead of me," Mills told her. "Let's hook you up to the monitor, and see what we learn."

She spoke calmly—they both did, actually—but Sara could detect the tension in her doctor's voice _and_ her own. Suddenly, Dr. Mills glanced around and said, "Wait. Where's Michael?"

Sara understood her surprise; Michael hadn't missed a single well check, sonogram appointment, or test this entire pregnancy. "London, for work," Sara told her with a frown.

As if on cue, her cell phone buzzed to life in her bag, hanging on a coat hook by the door. It was almost 10 am Chicago time by this point…she knew it would be them, with the phone call she'd been looking forward to, sharing the details of their day. Dr. Mills said, "Do you want me to…"

"No," Sara said swiftly. "Don't. I'll call back when…when we have some answers."

They listened to the phone ring several more times before falling silent.

* * *

The results of the nonstress test showed the baby was healthy and active, with a strong heartbeat. Sara's amniotic fluid levels were good, and an ultrasound revealed no thinning, tear or other compromise to her uterus. "In short, we have no idea why you bled this morning," Dr. Mills concluded. When Sara looked at her in frustration, she added, "That's a good thing…any reason we found would undoubtedly point to a problem, and certainly, spotting is not uncommon, but I know it's hard not to have concrete answers."

"Am I dilated?" Sara asked, ignoring her ringing phone for the second time.

"No," Mills assured her. "No contractions indicated on the nonstress, either. You're absolutely not in labor."

Thank God. "So what now?"

"So now," Mills said, sitting near her knee on the bed, "I want to keep you here overnight—"

"Wait, I—"

Mills held up a hand. "Just one night, just for monitoring. After that, one full day of bedrest at home, then you can return to work Friday, if all goes well."

Sara exhaled slowly. Ellie would need to stay overnight with Henry, which she knew she'd be happy to do, but still made Sara feel guilty. She worked a lot of hours, already. And Sara would need to move another set of appointments tomorrow. Did she need to call in Dan? Not yet, she decided. She'd follow doctor's orders precisely, and be back on Friday. "Alright," she said.

Dr. Mills raised an eyebrow. "Alright? Really? You'll follow the plan?"

She frowned at her. "I know no one believes me, but I really am Team Plan."

Mills looked relieved for the first time all morning as she left the room.

* * *

When Sara's phone buzzed a third time, just after Mills left, she asked her nurse to bring it to her. This wasn't going to be pleasant, but she also knew that Michael would definitely be worried by now.

"Are you alright?" he asked, not even wasting time on a greeting. His voice sounded tight with stress.

"I'm okay," she told him swiftly. "Baby's okay. I'm sorry I couldn't call you back until now."

"What's wrong?" he asked swiftly. "Why were you at Northwestern?"

She stared quizzically at her phone. Had it betrayed her location? "How did you know I'm at Northwestern?"

"You're still _there_?" he exclaimed.

"You first," she said, "then I'll explain from the beginning."

"We called the clinic when you didn't pick up your phone. Just to leave a message for you. We figured you were seeing patients, but Stacy said you were at Northwestern for some kind of tests."

Dammit. She shouldn't have told Stacy a single thing. The last thing she'd wanted to do was upset Michael. "Is Mike worried?" she asked softly.

"No, he's already asleep." She heard Michael take a breath before saying, "Sara. Tell me."

"This morning," she said slowly, "I was getting ready for work…and realized I was bleeding." She waited out his predictable reaction. It didn't disappoint. "But wait, Michael, let me tell you all of it."

She took him through it, from Ellie driving her straight to the hospital to each and every test that came out favorably. "Everything is fine, everything looks great," she assured him.

"Then _why_ are you _bleeding_?" he practically wailed.

"I'm not anymore," she told him. "I stopped. All on my own." She said this with an odd sense of pride, like a child hoping for praise after mastering a very simple task. She winced, but Michael seemed to take heart from this fact.

"Well, that's good, that's good," he said, in the manner of someone talking himself down from a ledge. 'And you'll be there all night, right? And they'll be monitoring you?"

"Yes."

"And you'll stay home all tomorrow, too? Not leaving the bed?"

"Or the couch," she amended.

"Bed," he insisted.

"Alright, bed," Sara agreed.

Michael was silent for a moment. "I was _so_ scared," he said eventually, "I felt so far away."

Sara leaned back on her hospital-issue pillow. "I know," she agreed. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to call you back until I had answers."

"You should have called me right away. Let me be there with you, on the phone."

She took a breath. "I know. But Mike. I didn't want him to worry."

"That's true," Michael conceded.

Wanting to change the subject, she said, "Did you have a fun day?"

They had. And somehow, Michael told her, the concierge at their hotel had snagged them Arsenal versus Paris St. Germain tickets for tomorrow, supposedly nearly impossible to obtain. They were scheduled on the 9 am Eurostar to watch the match at Le Parc des Princes in Paris. "Mike would have opened with that news, had you spoken with him tonight," Michael told her with a light laugh.

"You're a hero," she told him softly. She meant it, though she knew he took it as hyperbole.

"I'm worried about you," he told her. "We can come home. We could be there in 14 hours."

"And miss Arsenal? No, no." As much as she wanted him here, she wanted him to make these memories with Mike more. "Enjoy your time," she made him promise. "Enjoy Mike."

"I am," he said. He paused. "It's really wonderful, being here with him."

This made her happy, gladness overpowering her, an opening between clouds on a stormy day. She smiled into her phone. "I'm so glad he's there with you."

"I love him so much, Sara, I can scarcely stand it."

He whispered this like a confession, and she laughed, fully happy in this moment, knowing, thanks to a half dozen monitors strapped to her, that her baby was okay, that her two-year-old, listening to story time, was okay, that her almost-10-year-old, with his father, was okay. And that said father, the man she loved so fully, was okay. "I know," she commiserated. "He does that to you."

He laughed too. "How's Henry?"

"He misses you desperately," she told him. "It's pitiful, really."

"I love you," he told her, and then, like maybe that wasn't clear enough, he repeated this. "I love you, Sara."

"I know," she managed. "And _I_ love you."


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: As always, thank you for all the reviews...I read each and every one of them. This chapter is NSFW in the first half. **Edited to add:**_ ** _Er, whoops…I definitely had Sara and Michael choose June 12 as their baby's birthdate, as some of you tactfully reminded me, and therefore messed up in this_** ** _chapter, in which I made it June 14. Full disclosure, I truly consulted a calendar to determine Sara's C-Section date, and since my own birthday is June 13, I knew I'd picked a day off, because that would just be weird, and must have flipped it in my mind. Of course, it doesn't matter in the slightest, but I do hate continuity errors._ _Sorry about this one._** ****

Mike and Michael returned home the next Saturday, Mike full of enthusiasm for their trip, Michael's enthusiasm only overshadowed by the look of concern he immediately shot to Sara, dutifully on the couch (though she'd been cleared to be back at work as of the day before). She rose to embrace Mike, who practically bounced with excitement to see her, and then she hugged Michael too, but not really to her satisfaction before he guided her back down to the couch, a hand firm on her shoulder.

"You're feeling alright?" he asked, even though she'd already confirmed this on the phone multiple times the past two days.

"Yes," she promised, without any impatience, allowing him to coax her to sit again, tugging him and Mike down beside her. She'd made a decision after her hospital stay: now that it was almost April, she had ten weeks of pregnancy to go, and that was too long to be fighting Michael. She'd spend all ten of them doing every single thing she was told. He was allowed to be as over-protective as he wanted, and she'd give him no push-back. The sight of her blood had scared her, but more than that, this was essentially her last trimester of what would absolutely be her last pregnancy, and they both deserved to enjoy it as much as they could.

"Tell me all about it," she entreated Mike, as Henry climbed up onto Michael's lap and encircled him in a full-torso hug. Michael wrapped his arms around him, squishing him tight. "I _missed_ you, crazy boy," he told him, causing Henry to laugh happily against his neck.

Mike told Sara all about the Arsenal game, showing her his new jersey he'd worn all the way home, fishing out a second, smaller one from his backpack for Henry, whose eyes widened in delight. He promptly wanted help tugging it over his head, then shifted from Michael to Mike, clinging to him quite literally, grabbing his arm and refusing to let go.

Mike tried to describe a play the goal keeper had made, adding, "Henry, get offa me!" when he couldn't lift his arm to illustrate the save.

"Hey now," Michael reprimanded mildly, and Mike relented, indulging Henry with surprising maturity.

"I'll show you how it happened, Hen, if you go get your ball," he offered, and they both clambered off the couch to find it.

"Take it outside!" Sara called after them, before settling closer against Michael.

He ran both hands over her stomach. "She's moving the same as before?" he asked. "You don't notice anything wrong?"

Sara adjusted the position of his hands in answer, guiding him to feel the next gentle jab. It was an elbow or heel; she could never decide which. Michael smiled at her and then kissed her bracingly, like she'd just done something worth celebrating.

She kissed him back with double the ardor, flashing him a look she hoped conveyed how much she'd missed him.

He drew back from her to study this look. "Go over doctor's orders with me again?" he requested, his voice dropping to a huskier note she suspected wasn't intentional. He cleared his throat. "Conditional bedrest?"

She shook her head. "I'm cleared for 'all usual day-to-day activities' as of yesterday." She gave him a moment to work out how to interpret this, then smiled when he reacted correctly, bending over her to kiss her again, this time without reserve.

"How long do you think the kids will be outside?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Not long enough," she told him. "But I'll give you a raincheck."

He kept kissing her anyway, until she knew it would be torturous to break apart when the boys barreled back inside. She pressed a hand to his chest. "Stop it, or I won't be able to bear it."

"To be continued, then," he told her, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just behind her ear. She shivered, wondering how, after years together, he could still manage to make her feel like she might melt into a puddle of want.

"Go unpack," she told him, before she could cave and pull him to her again. But as he reached bottom of the stairs, she called out, "Michael? I've been thinking—"

But he'd already turned around, saying simultaneously, "I've decided—" He paused, so as not to interrupt her, but she paused too, and then they both spoke over each other again.

"I don't want you to leave again, until she's born."

"I'm not traveling again, until after June."

She nodded. "Good."

He nodded almost gravely back at her. Even across the room, she could still cut the sexual and emotional tension with a knife. "Okay, then." He grabbed his bag, and Mike's, and headed up the stairs.

* * *

"i've noticed you've been very…agreeable," he observed later that night, after she'd allowed him to take care of all Henry-related evening chores. Henry, of course, wouldn't have had it any other way, given how much he'd missed his dad. Mike, poor kid, had crashed even earlier, his young body still a slave to jet lag.

"It's the new me." She climbed into their bed in a t-shirt and an old pair of Michael's boxer shorts…the only thing she claimed were comfortable to sleep in once her pregnant belly wreaked havoc on her waistline. He wasn't complaining: the boxers reminded him of what he'd always consider to be what passed for their honeymoon, in the bungalow rental in Florida they'd briefly shared before he'd proposed. They looked great on her, though he anticipated he'd be peeling them off her soon. _No, not complaining at all._

But…what was this about the new Sara? "Is that so?" he said.

"Yes. I've surrendered," she told him in an uncharacteristic flare of drama. She stretched out on the bed, arms cast at her sides. "I am but a vessel, carrying this baby of ours to term, and nothing more. Do with me what you will."

Michael chuckled, but proceeded with caution. "See, that statement's confusing, because it sounds appealing to me on several levels." He pushed up her shirt—she'd be even more comfortable with it up and out of her way, right?— and traced her skin with a fingertip, sliding it slowly around the arc of her belly, rib to hip. "But I sense a trap. You don't ever do as your told."

"Actually," she countered softly, sitting up to pin him with an intense gaze, "I have _always_ done _everything_ requested of me…when it counts."

She was right, of course. Had she ever failed to do what he'd asked of her? Even when he'd asked far, far too much? _Leave the infirmary unlocked. Go out the Miami-Dade door without me. Raise our son. Wait for me._ He guided her back down to the bed slowly, wanting to cover her with his body, but not allowing himself to quite do so. He kissed her hard.

"You're right," he breathed, as he bent over her. "Thank you." By the look on her face, she wished to feel the full weight of him on top of her, too. He contented himself with pushing her shirt up higher so he could cup her breasts, then close his mouth over one pink nipple, then the other. He rolled his tongue over each slowly, reveling in the sensation. She made a satisfied sound, which made him feel justified instead of guilty; tasting her like this had definitely been foremost a selfish act, bringing him acute pleasure.

"I want you so badly," he told her, because she should know this. It was only fair. She made another weak noise of agreement or encouragement, as he continued to kiss her, and he thought about putting her back on her knees—he couldn't help this desire from momentarily seizing him—but guilt won out. "But I don't know how else…" he began, when she'd become aware of his internal struggle.

"Actually," she admitted, "that wasn't so bad. It was…pretty great, really." She had pulled off his pants, and was stroking him, making it almost impossible for him to think about anything else.

Still. "I can't," he told her. "Now that I know…" He realized he didn't want to finish this sentence. "I just can't."

"Okay," she said breathlessly. "I know."

They lay tangled together on the bed for a few minutes, touching each other, kissing each other, each of them becoming increasingly desperate. Sara rolled on top of him and straddled him, which yes, was the most sensible conclusion, but, "You don't like it like this," he said, unnecessarily, of course, because she knew this as well as he did.

"But I want…I don't know…it needs to work," she conceded, between pulls of air as he kissed her hotly.

"Very noble of you, but no." He rolled her back to her side, then onto her back, where he could spread her knees, and yes, peel those boxers off. Gently, he fingered the impressively wet heat between her legs and watched her entire demeanor shift from wanting to please to true surrender for the first time all night. The look on her face made his own delayed gratification well worth it. "Lay back," he told her "Close your eyes."

His thumb and forefinger stroked her, chased by his tongue, and she whimpered softly, eyes closed—she really did do as he asked—the boxers now just hooked around one ankle. His tongue honed in effortlessly on the spot he knew would bring her hips bucking toward him in supplication, but she came so fast, it startled him.

"Sorry," she gasped. "Pregnancy hormones," but he wasn't listening, dipping his face to her again, to make sure this happened a second time. She tasted different while pregnant…earthier, tangier, and though he wouldn't tell her this—she'd be self-conscious—he couldn't get enough of it. He devoured her, bringing her swiftly to a second orgasm…a third. As she came down from this one, her belly felt incredibly rigid, her heart pounding almost erratically when he pressed his mouth back to her breast.

"We're not going any further tonight," he told her definitively. He wouldn't risk intercourse. She seemed way too stimulated as it was.

In this strange new normal they lived in, she didn't argue. Not one word. She just slid down his torso before he could decide on a defense to the challenge that never came. Then she closed her mouth around him, and he was lost. Her tongue circled his head in slow, tantalizing arcs, and he tangled his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer.

"God yes," he told her, because if he couldn't bury himself inside her, this—her mouth, so warm and wet—was a very, very close second. He thrust his hips forward—again, he couldn't help it—and felt her smile, her hands cupping him, her fingers working their own magic. Very soon, he was very close, and she knew it; she flicked her tongue over him one last time, then drew back, and he came into her hand, seeing stars.

He leaned his head against her heavily, completely spent. "You are entirely too good at that," he told her.

He felt her chuckle before he heard it. "Let's not overanalyze that, shall we?" She handed him some tissues from the bedside table, a necessary next step after his stand against completion inside her. "But Michael, you're not going to say no for the next two and a half months, are you?"

It was a fair question. He looked carefully at her, and what he saw in her face was remarkable: he truly believed that if he were to put his proverbial foot down right now, and say no more sex until June, she'd accept it. But he had no interest in doing so, of course. "No, I just want to talk to Dr. Mills," he said. "I'm worried about the bleeding. Your cervix dilating too soon. Labor. All of it. Just let me ask her about it."

She leaned up and kissed his forehead. "Okay."

He ran his hand experimentally over her abdomen again. It wasn't as alarmingly rigid now. He massaged her in soft circles and felt the baby roll underneath her skin.

"Aren't you tired?" she asked.

"Mmmhmm." His eyes closed of their own accord.

"Go to sleep," she told him, and he did as he was told.

* * *

Knowing that soon enough, they'd be busy to the point of distraction by the baby, Michael wanted to make a big deal of Mike's 10th birthday. "Anything you want to do," he told him, while Sara's eyes widened in alarm behind Mike's head. But carte blanche was okay by Michael. His firstborn had earned it. "I can't believe you've been on this earth for ten full years," he marveled, letting the truth of this really sink in. Mike's age managed to both make him realize how far they'd all come, and remind him how much he'd missed. Michael was still in the red: he'd still missed more than he'd experienced in Mike's life.

He dug his heels in. "Do you want a big party?" he asked him. "Want to go somewhere?"

"Didn't you just go on a trip?" Sara pointed out.

Michael ignored her. London hadn't been a birthday present. "What do you want?" he encouraged a somewhat dazed Mike. "Name it."

"I just want…I dunno. Anything, I guess."

But Michael could tell Mike had been about to specify something. He needed to know why he'd changed his mind.

"You thought of something," he pressed. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Mike insisted, turned away so Michael couldn't analyze his expression.

"Mike?"

He watched his shoulders rise and then slump as he exhaled. "Alright, maybe…there is one thing I wanted us to do together. But we can't, so I wasn't going to bring it up."

"What is it? Why can't we do it?"

"You'll be busy," Mike insisted.

"I'll make time, for whatever it is." Michael was beginning to feel frustrated.

Mike rooted around in his backpack and produced a slip of paper, folded in thirds. He flattened it out on the counter top of the kitchen island, so Michael and Sara could both read it. _STEM Chicago Junior Engineering Popsicle Stick Bridge Building Contest._

It looked like Mike could enter in the 10-16-year-old category, designing and building his own suspension bridge model that would be judged in multiple categories, like mass distribution, load capacity, and function. Michael's first thought: _yessssss._

"Let's do it!" he enthused, adding belatedly, "Am I allowed to help? Probably not."

"You're allowed to 'consult', it says, but…" Mike sighed again and shoved a finger at the fine print. "We can't do it," he insisted.

Michael looked where he pointed. The contest concluded with a full day of showcasing and judging at the convention center downtown on…June 14th.

"That's the baby's birthday," Mike added unnecessarily. He folded the paper back up and stuffed it back into his backpack. He didn't do this angrily, exactly. Just…resignedly.

 _Dammit._ Michael glanced at Sara in dismay, who shrugged helplessly. "Mike? I'm sorry."

"I know," Mike insisted, his voice a tad too high. "I told you, I knew." He added unconvincingly, "I don't care about it much."

 _No, not much at all…it was just_ all _he wanted for his birthday. Which, by the way, was one of only four birthdays Michael had been fortunate enough to be here for._ The flier had listed the competition time as 11 am. The baby was scheduled to be born at 7 am. "You know what?" he said suddenly. "No. We're doing it. Get that form back out."

"Michael…" Sara said.

"I won't be there for the judging, of course," Michael clarified, but we'll get someone to take you, we'll figure that out. And from now until then, you and I can work on it."

A quick rise of hope sprang into Mike's eyes, and shone brightly. But Sara said, "I want Mike to meet the baby on the 14th."

"He will, absolutely," Michael asserted. "He'll meet her before the competition." He looked at Sara. "He'll come see her right after she's born. That's been the plan all along." _And the plan was what would happen._

"But if…"

"There is no if." Because in Michael's mind, there was no Plan B. Just Plan A, in which the baby is born safely at 7 am exactly on June 14th, and he and Sara are holding her by 7:01 am, and Mike and Henry are brought to the hospital by Lincoln, directly after.

"Mike can be at the competition way before it starts," Michael promised.

"Okay," Sara said weakly.

Both Michael and Mike looked at her, just to be sure they heard correctly. Then Mike said, "Okay?!"

"Okay," Micheal grinned, reveling in Mike's expression of delight. "What's the entry fee?"

* * *

Michael's decision to enter the bridge building contest with Mike was proof positive to Sara that he was 100 percent in denial that anything could go wrong during their daughter's birth. She understood the appeal of this mindset better than he'd give her credit for, to be sure: naturally, she didn't like thinking anything would go wrong either. But in her mind, Sara had already planned for it, just in case. The days following the 14th of June on Sara's calendar remained very blank, because, well, she just didn't know, did she?

Because they approached June in such vastly different ways, Sara didn't tell Michael she had successfully met with the lawyer who'd been recommended to her. That she'd already filled out, notarized, and filed paperwork that would spare Michael (and let's be real, Lincoln) any extra angst in the case things got as bad as they could get. In a neat stack in a manila envelope she'd deliver to Lincoln for safekeeping was a DNR and a life support preference request, followed by her living will.

Since the legal documents proving their marriage nearly eleven years prior had been made obsolete by her pseudo marriage to Jacob and then reinstated by the CIA lawyer, she double-checked its validity again, then the paternity indicated on both kids' birth certificates. Then, just for good measure, she added a clause to her will specifically stating Michael's sole custody of all three children in the unlikely event of single parenthood. Finally, she wrote her letters, one each to Michael, Mike, Henry, and the baby, multiple pages-long each, in her own handwriting, and sealed each of them. This part took her a very long time, spread over a series of afternoons at her desk at work, staring, ironically, at her latest birthday rose, this year's model constructed almost solo by Henry, with necessary guidance by Michael. Yes, it was depressing work, all of it, but afterward, she felt strangely elated. Ready. Calm.

She knew that Michael would positively flip out if he knew she'd done any of this, let alone all of it, but feeling so well prepared made it much easier for her to look forward to mid-June with enthusiasm instead of trepidation. There was really just one more plan she needed to get in place, and unfortunately, for this one, she couldn't avoid including Michael.

"We're going to discuss pain med options today," she informed him, en route to their 30 week appointment in the beginning of May. He'd picked her up from work so they could go together; so far, she'd avoided bedrest, thanks Sara said, to a healthy outlook (thanks Michael said, to following the Plan).

He mentioned the Plan now. "You said you'd take what was necessary," he reminded her.

"And I will, but we haven't decided what's necessary yet," she pointed out. "That's what I want to discuss."

Honestly, she wasn't looking forward to the conversation as much as Michael suspected. She knew her options were limited at best. Discussing it with Mills was more for the process of wrapping her mind around what she'd have to do than anything else.

In the exam room, Dr. Mills confirmed this. "Let's break it down," she said. "You will need some sort of pain relief at two stages: one, during the C-Section…obviously. Two, afterward, during recovery. Now, for afterward, I've had patients who have managed on ibuprofen alone, lord help them," she said. Michael frowned. "But nine out of ten? Need something stronger. I'm perfectly willing to let you wait and see what you need, provided everything goes as planned, and if you want to skip Vicodin or morphine, by all means, be my guest."

"Okay," Sara agreed cautiously. "But during the C-Section?"

"We're going to use an epidural, so you can remain conscious and alert. You shouldn't be groggy, or nauseous—"

"I don't care about that as much as I care what's in the epidural block."

"Sara," Dr. Mills said sadly. "You know what's in it."

"I don't," Michael ventured.

"A local anesthetic, plus Fentanyl, probably," Sara supplied flatly. "Maybe Sufentanil. Doesn't matter which. It's all the same."

Dr. Mills looked truly regretful, but said, "I could order you a block with opioids instead of narcotics, but they don't work as well, and would that even matter? If your goal is to stay clean, it's splicing hairs, at that point."

"It can't be done," Sara mourned. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes to the sharp sting of the tears that suddenly welled there. She'd known this would be what Mills said. It had been inevitable. She needed to talk it through, just the same.

"Though, with a natural birth, I could," she said softly. "I did, with Mike."

"Out of the question," Michael said swiftly and sharply.

Dr. Mills nodded, echoing more gently, "Out of the question."

Sara stared out the window, watching traffic crawl along the boulevard ten floors below. "Alright," she said eventually. Of all the compromises she'd made, following orders the past seven months, this one was by far the hardest. She felt limp, almost numb. It had been one thing during Henry's birth. That had been an emergency. She hadn't been conscious for the decision. But this time…it felt premeditated. She tried to stifle the sob that rose up in her throat, unsuccessfully.

"I'm sorry, Sara," Dr. Mills said. Then, "I'll give you a moment."

When she'd left the room, Sara continued to look out the window. She felt Michael's hands on her shoulders. "I don't know how to make this better for you," he said.

"There is no way," she told him. "There is no better." But she reached her hands up behind her to clasp his, drawing them around her.

"Then we'll get through it, like we get through everything."

"Don't say 'we'." Because she couldn't bear it.

She felt him sigh. "Because you don't want it to be 'we', or because you won't let it be?"

She remained silent. Her addiction was _her_ doing. It was her mistake she had to live with.

When he concluded she wasn't going to answer, he added, "Because I've wanted it to be 'we' since the day I learned you overdosed."

She squeezed his hands tighter.

"This…narcotic," he pressed, "is needed because of the pregnancy, not any weakness on your part. And you didn't get pregnant by yourself, as I recall."

She kind of sobbed-laughed. "No, I did not." She let go of one of his hands to swipe at her eyes.

"We'll get through this," he told her again, more firmly. "Alight?"

She turned around to face him, marveling for the hundredth time at his steadfast loyalty to her. The least she could do was humor him. "Alright," she agreed.

* * *

If Michael had hoped he'd need to hold Mike's hand through the popsicle stick bridge design process, he'd been wrong. In all honesty, his help was almost entirely unneeded, he decided, looking over the hand-drawn blueprints his firstborn presented to him with obvious apprehension. Before Michael could even appreciate the full design, Mike jumped in, clearly unnerved by his silence, explaining why he'd proposed this length of rail and that level of suspension, pointing to various parts of his drawing with anxious glances toward his father's face.

"Mike, this will work perfectly," he assured him, watching him exhale in relief. "Let me get my glasses, and we'll go over it piece by piece."

They worked on the design together for a full week, scanning Mike's drawing into Michael's engineering program and bringing it to life on the computer screen. They tweaked measurements here and there and moved design elements slightly for better weight distribution and aesthetic appeal, but essentially, Mike's original concept was sound.

After several trips for materials (they went through three boxes of popsicles before Mike admitted they could buy the sticks in a craft store), they began building his bridge in the kitchen during the afternoons Mike didn't have soccer practice. Pretty soon, the project took shape, taking up half the dining room table.

"We may need to move it," Sara noted, when it became necessary to eat dinner at the kitchen island, but Mike wouldn't hear of it. He didn't dare lift it, nor would he let anyone else try.

"You're going to have to move it eventually," Michael pointed out. "Better make sure it's portable before then."

The evening he finally talked Mike into a relocation attempt, he'd also invited Henry Pope over to debrief with him about a recent job he'd done. He thought Pope might find the work relevant to his interest in prison reform.

"I thought you didn't talk about prisons with people," Mike pointed out.

"Henry Pope isn't 'people'," Sara told him mildly. "But they really just like to sit in the library and drink scotch," she added.

"Can I?" Mike asked.

"No," they both answered.

"Talk with them in the library, I mean."

"Oh," Michael said. "Sure. For a while, anyway."

When Henry arrived, he made just the right amount of fuss over Sara's ever-growing stomach, which is to say, basically just a nod, and a much bigger fuss over Mike's suspension bridge. "Wow," he told Mike, circling the project in the library. He gave a low whistle. "She's certainly coming along."

"We had to move it—her—here tonight, because there's no more room on the table," he informed him proudly.

"Well, whatever you do, don't move her again," Pope advised, wincing in memory.

Michael chose to ignore this, but added, "He'll have to, for the judging downtown on the 14th of next month."

Pope stared at him. "Who the hell's going to get him to that? Not you, I hope. Not with the baby just born."

Michael wondered if Pope was getting a bit bossy. Having a father figure in his life wasn't always what it was cracked up to be. "We'll figure it out."

"Well, why don't I take him?" Pope asked. When Michael just stared at him—this option had truly never occurred to him—he added, "Give an old man something to do."

"You'd want to…take my son to his STEM competition?"

"How hard could it be? What do you think, Mike?"

Mike nodded.

Michael supposed he'd planned on Lincoln taking him, but in the back of his mind, a place he refused to visit these days, he worried that just maybe, if things didn't go _completely_ smoothly at the hospital, Michael might need Linc with him. And Ellie would be watching Henry. And LJ would be out of town for a law conference.

"I suppose…that would be extremely helpful, actually," he granted.

"Well, don't act like I'm doing _you_ the favor," Pope mumbled. But he flashed another smile at Mike. "It'll be fun to watch you win," he said.

"We don't know that he'll—"

"Ah, c'mon. We know."

Michael watched Mike's chest actually expand with pride.

* * *

At the end of May, with three weeks of pregnancy to go, Sara finally succumbed to bedrest. She'd made it a lot farther than she'd thought she would, and true to her new self, she didn't fight it. She had begun feeling all the usual aches and pains that were so very normal in late pregnancy, but which this time around, she second-guessed. With each low ache, she worried. With each tug against her abdomen, she feared she was going into labor. To be honest, it was a relief to announce her last day at the clinic and settle in at home to wait.

Her team at work threw her a baby shower, which touched her. There were gifts of tiny baby clothes from her nursing staff (mostly pink) and hand-knit baby blankets and hats from the senior group volunteers (mostly pink) and speeches about how much they'd all miss her and looked forward to her return in the fall, plus pleas for her to bring the baby to visit them all this summer. Sara supposed they could all speak so freely because Dan, though invited, had declined to attend.

"Which is just odd," her receptionist Stacy mused with a disgruntled look, but Sara quickly silenced this talk.

"He's a busy man," she said, "and I'm thankful you all will be in such good hands while I'm gone."

But as she gathered all her personal belongings in her office, storing them all away in the supply closet so Dan could have some space without her effects cluttering the desk, she found one more pink paper-wrapped gift sitting on her chair. It didn't have a card attached, which is how she knew with certainty it was from him, and she opened it with trepidation. She'd had a really nice afternoon, and didn't look forward to having it spoiled. But inside was a very simple, but pretty perfect offering: a box of her favorite herbal tea, that she'd first fallen in love with in Mumbai years ago. It was almost impossibly hard to find outside of India. Surely she hadn't mentioned it more than once, at best, perhaps after complaining that she couldn't order it from the States. How had he found it?

There was a simple tag on the box with a note, but still no signature: _Remember to take care of yourself, too._

She brought the box of tea to her nose and breathed in the familiar scent. Whatever his motives, this was very thoughtful of him. She discarded the wrapping and tucked the tea into her purse. She wouldn't see him—true to his word, he'd be 'tagging in' tomorrow after she'd departed—but they'd be in communication via the virtual meeting portal the clinic utilized, and after sending him her first message detailing information necessary for their hand-off, she added, _Thank you for my tea._

* * *

The week May slid into June, Sara's ultrasound showed a healthy 34 week-gestated baby girl almost but definitely not quite ready to enter this world. Which meant even stricter bedrest, 24 hours a day for Sara. "She needs these two weeks," Dr. Mills stressed. "Two weeks in utero is like four in a NICU unit. We want to keep her right where she is, until June 14th."

"And if my uterus looks good, and I'm not dilated at all, maybe even one week longer?" Sara asked. If 36 weeks was good, 37 was better.

"No," Mills and Michael said in unison.

'The Plan' it was.

Thanks to Michael being on top of things, the baby's room at the top of the stairs was all ready: Henry's old crib carted out of storage and reassembled, new bedding and blackout shades, new furniture already filled with washed and folded baby clothes, diapers, and blankets. It looked perfect, and Sara knew it would remain that way: without doubt, the baby would sleep near them for months, in the bassinet already stashed to the side of their bed in their room.

Michael had insisted on buying a brand new infant car seat, even though, after a thorough washing, Henry's would have been sufficient. When he unboxed it, their second-born son stared it at long and hard, with a very grumpy look on his face, until Sara finally said, "This isn't for you, Henry."

He immediately cheered up. "For the baby?"

He still lived in perpetual confusion about this mysterious sibling. "Yes, you have a big kid car seat now." She emphasized 'big' and 'kid', though she knew Henry disliked his larger seat as much as he'd disliked his old one.

She invited him to settle in with her, where she lay on the couch. "You know," she told him, running her fingers through his curls, "pretty soon, your baby sister will be here, and then you won't be the littlest one anymore."

Saying this fact aloud actually sent a stab of regret through her. Henry was such the quintessential baby. _Her_ baby. She swallowed. Who was she trying to prepare here, him or her?

"The baby will be the littlest and I'll be the biggest," Henry decided.

"Well, Mike will still be the biggest, and you'll be the middle biggest."

He frowned, too smart not to see this as the consolation prize it was. "I want to be the biggest now, okay Mama? Or littlest, but not middle big."

"Henry, you'll be the middle kid _always_ now," Mike contributed from the table, where he finished his homework. "You can't swap."

"Thank you, Mike. That's super helpful."

Michael chuckled. "I was always the littlest," he told Henry, "and I never liked it. Middle is a good spot."

Henry tried to follow all this, looking carefully from his father to his brother, but the packing peanuts the car seat had come in eventually distracted him. He said, "I choose littlest, so no baby, thanks, Mama," and bent over the box, fingers diving into the peanuts and spilling them onto the floor.

"He's in for a rude awakening…" Mike observed.

"Well," Sara ventured with a nervous laugh, "something fun to look forward to, I guess."

But later, when Mike came to say goodnight to her before heading to bed, she tugged him down next to her as well. "How are you feeling about the baby?" she asked him softly. "I know her arrival has felt really far away for a long time, but it's almost time now."

"I know," he said. He smiled at her shyly. "It's good."

"Are you worried, at all?"

"Can I be there?" he said abruptly, almost before she'd finished speaking. "With Dad? To make sure you're okay?"

"Oh Mike. I'll be okay." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael still in the kitchen, midway through making her a cup of tea. He watched them carefully.

"But I won't _know._ "

He'd be at home with Linc, getting everything ready for his competition. Sara wanted normalcy for him. "Dad will call right away," she promised. "You know the plan," she reminded him gently. "You'll stay here with your uncle when Dad and I leave in the morning, and as soon as she's born, you'll come see her, before going to to the judging."

"And if it doesn't go okay?"

In the kitchen, Michael dropped the tea kettle. It landed on the stove top with a slight clatter. "It will go okay, Mike," Sara said, for both their benefit.

"But—"

Fine. "If it doesn't go okay, you'll come to the hospital right away, no matter what, with Uncle Lincoln. And you will be right there with Dad. And with me." Was that what he wanted to hear?

Apparently so. Mike exhaled and smiled. "Okay, Mom. And I'm sure it will go okay."


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Happy holidays! I planned to hold this chapter back until the new year, then decided...why? Special thanks to reader CitizenKay, who suggested a baby name I ended up using as a middle name. And for the guest reviewer who asked if I live in Chicago, no, no where near it, actually, though I do travel a lot, and have spent time in the city. Mostly, I just do a lot of research. Enjoy...this is a work safe chapter.

Sara brought her big stack of paperwork to Lincoln a few days before her C-Section date. "I thought you were supposed to be on bedrest or something," he told her when he answered the door.

"Yes, well, one exception," she told him. She handed him her fat manila envelope, which contained everything he'd need if…well, everything he'd need. He accepted it hesitantly, holding the door for her and waving her inside.

"Sit down, sit down. What's all this now?"

"This and that," she told him. He knew what it was.

He peered cautiously into the envelope, glimpsing page upon page of legalese. "Hmmph," he said. "Won't even know what to do with all this shit."

"You'll figure it out," she told him mildly. "Or just give it to LJ." This thought was depressing enough to make her add, "We'll probably just burn it in our fire pit in about a week."

"Sounds like the best plan," he contributed.

He pulled out the smaller, sealed envelopes inside, the ones addressed to Michael and the children. She let him. Given all he'd done for them, and continued to do, was _willing_ to do, even if grudgingly, Linc deserved better than to be kept in the dark.

As he pulled these individual letters out and flipped through them, she read the name addressed on each envelope over his shoulder. Each was handwritten in her slanted script: _Michael, Mike, Henry…Faith._

He let out a soft sound of surprise, and spun around to her. "Faith?"

She smiled at him. "What do you think?"

He stood there, speechless for a moment. "I think…you guys are damned good at naming babies," he said gruffly.

She beamed at him. "Michael got his way with her middle name…you'll see. But yes, Faith." She lay a hand on her stomach. She couldn't seem to help it.

Lincoln's eye followed her movement, and he smiled at her. "I love it," he told her. He stared at the envelopes in his hand. "And we won't need any of this morbid shit, alright?"

"Alright," she told him bracingly, but watched him tuck the letters back into the manila envelope very carefully anyway.

* * *

June 14th dawned clear and calm, or so Sara assumed. She'd been awake long before dawn, but had lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, instead of watching the sun rise. A pretty lame way to start what surely wouldn't be, but just might be, the last day of her life, she decided. But it was too late now: the sun was up, and Michael was up, and Mike was up, and all of them were circling each other with nervous energy.

Only Henry, when they woke him, seemed unaffected, waiting for Ellie to show up like it was any other day, only earlier. "Mama, when's that baby coming?" he asked, with more exasperation than usual. Henry wasn't exactly a morning person, Sara had discovered of late.

"Soon," she said only. Nerves had grasped hold of her, too, dancing through her stomach. It was just as well she wasn't allowed to eat anything this morning. "You'll see her later today." This seemed to satisfy Henry, but Mike glanced at her anxiously, and she had to look away.

She and Michael needed to be at Northwestern's medical center at six am, and Ellie showed up at 5:15, looking just as nerve-wracked as everyone else. She hugged Sara tightly, then said, "Call me right away," to Michael. She absently turned on a somewhat stupid TV program for Henry, then stared at it blankly with him. Neither Sara nor Michael could muster enough concern to argue with this decision.

When she'd delayed their departure as long as possible, Sara hugged Mike, and reminded him that Uncle Lincoln would be there for breakfast and would already have an update. She held him to her tightly and told him she loved him and then forced herself not to say anything more. She'd see him very soon, she reminded herself viciously.

She embraced Henry next, who was less cooperative, wiggling away as he tried to watch his show. Michael looked at his watch, starting to get fidgety, but she said, "Give me a minute," in a very firm voice, and he stilled, letting her say goodbye to their baby boy. Once they got in the car, Michael began an immaterial conversation about traffic, then about the weather and recent wind patterns on Lake Michigan, managing to stretch out an anecdote about sailing all the way to Northwestern. If his trivial prattle was in an attempt to keep her calm, it wasn't working. And besides, she actually had a few things she wanted to say to him, not that he gave her any opening to do so.

They made good time at this hour of the morning, but even after they'd parked, he continued to chatter, so before they could walk in, she laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Michael? I need you to know…"

He'd been expecting this. He shut her down fast. "I won't do this, Sara," he said.

"I have no regrets," she told him, looking him right in the eye, standing there in the near-empty parking lot. He turned his gaze away from her, staring moodily at the skyline, still pink with sunrise, but she pushed on anyway, drawing his attention back to her. She'd say her piece whether he wanted her to or not. "I wouldn't have done anything differently," she told him softly, "from the absolute start."

* * *

Typical of Sara to use this opportunity to tell him one last thing to make _him_ feel better, to alleviate _his_ guilt. Michael stared at her, feeling his heart literally constrict. "Be okay," he commanded her harshly, and that was it. That was all he could muster, before turning on his heel and walking her into the hospital to check in.

By 6:30 am, Sara had had her last ultrasound of her pregnancy, and Dr. Mills had given the green light for surgery. "She can perform the C-Section in under three seconds," her surgical nurse informed them. "First incision to first breath. I've seen it."

Michael tried to breathe himself. Just thirty minutes from now, then less than three seconds more, if this woman was to be believed, and his baby girl would be here. And Sara would be fine. _She'd. Be. Fine._

The nurse moved to take Sara for surgical prep, and, in an attempt to carry on his litany of 'there's nothing to worry about', he said only, "I'll see you in just a minute."

But Sara cast him a quick, almost desperately hurt look, and he caved, his determined show of bravado falling around him like a house of cards. "Wait, wait, wait."

She waited.

"Remember my brain surgery?" he whispered to her fervently. "I did not leave you, did I?"

When she treated this like a rhetorical question, which it was not, he drew back to look her hard in the eye. Her obvious anxiety rebounded on him. "Did I?"

"No."

"Then don't you dare leave me."

He kissed her, hard. When he saw her next, she was on her back on the operating gurney, and they were raising a sheet between her chest and her abdomen, so she couldn't see the procedure, and he was wishing he couldn't see it, either. He reminded himself to look only at her face, which was looking paler than he'd like, actually. Sara glanced over at him only briefly, however, even when he touched her shoulder and smiled. She seemed focused on something on the ceiling.

"What about the epidural?" he asked, because Dr. Mills had entered the room, scrubbed and gowned.

"Already administered," Sara told him flatly, still looking at some fixed point above them.

What? He'd planned to be there, at her side, for that, given how she felt about it. He bent down to her to tell her he was sorry. But if it had been hard to capture her full attention before, it was impossible now. She wasn't listening to him. She'd gone somewhere else in her head, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling, her breath coming in short, uneven breaths. And Michael realized: this was more than nerves. For all her certainty, for all her fortitude, she was quietly panicking now.

"Sweetheart?" he said, standing near her head as he watched the clock shift toward 7 am and Dr. Mills prepare her instruments on a metal tray near Sara's hip.

It took her a moment to find his face and lock eyes. "I don't know if I can do this," she confessed in a whisper. "If I can't…Michael…I'm so sorry."

"No," he countered, through clenched jaw. "You can." He tried to smile at her again, and failed. But he persevered. "I don't know if you remember," he said, "but there was a moment, in the air ducts at Fox River, when we had to crawl over a particularly difficult stretch. And you said, 'Michael, I can't.' And I had only known you, what? A matter of days, at that point. But I already knew two things about you. I knew that you _could_ , and also that you would." He looked at her. "That was the first time you ever took my hand."

He held it out to her now, and she extended her arm shakily to reach out to clasp it.

"You can do this," he promised. When she didn't answer, he added, "You just need to…have Faith." He smiled at her in earnest until she smiled back at his stupid pun.

* * *

Faith Seraphina Scofield was born at 7:00:03 am on June 14th, surrounded by what seemed to Michael like the entirety of the medical staff at Northwestern. He watched the first incision of Dr. Mill's scalpel into Sara's flesh, a single crimson bead of blood rising to the surface of her skin, and then his vision began to blur at the edges and the room began to tilt oddly, and someone said sharply, "Hey! Dad! Eyes up here!" and he remembered he was supposed to be looking at Sara's face. He found it, and stared at her somewhat manically, locking his eyes back on hers, until, true to her nurse's word, not three seconds later, Dr. Mills lifted their baby above the paper curtain blocking their view, and her first cry cut through the air.

She was beautiful and whole and Sara was already reaching for her, but Michael's attention swung instantly back to Dr. Mills. Would Sara's blood clot? Or would her blood pressure plummet? Another second ticked by on the clock, then another. "Stitch her up. Stitch her right back up, right now," he commanded, looking again at Sara's stomach before he could remind himself not to. But it wasn't so bad, really. The incision was there, yes, where reddened flesh now gave way to an under layer of pink, but everything seemed under control. No alarms. No panicked faces. The room was cast in a strange serenity, it seemed to Michael. It wasn't anything like before, with Henry. Nothing was like that. Nothing ever would be like that again, he realized.

"Let me see her," Sara said impatiently. "Is she alright?" but it took two, maybe three more pleas before Michael could manage to track his gaze from Sara to Faith, who'd been whisked away by the nursing staff. They'd already wiped her down and put a beanie hat on her head and someone weighed her, and Michael couldn't imagine how any of that was important right now. He gravitated toward her, and finally, someone put her in his arms, saying, "Congratulations," and he looked down at blue eyes that stared back at him solemnly between cries, coupled by Sara's perfect nose and mouth. The hint of dark brown hair peeked out from her knitted cap, and she waved two balled fists in the air at him.

"Hi," he managed to breathe, just as he had to Henry. Unlike Henry, however, who had transcended peace upon him, Faith commenced wailing at him, fists still flailing.

He brought her to Sara, who laughed at how angry she seemed, upon the rude awakening of being born. Faith was small—only five pounds, six ounces, a nurse said—but otherwise healthy for being four weeks premature. "She's okay," Sara laugh-cried, running a hand over her cheek and beanied-head, her arm weighted down by an IV that Michael knew only contained saline and antibiotics (for now) and a blood pressure cuff. Still, the sight of both threatened to trigger some dark reaction in Michael, another throwback to Henry's birth. He pushed this thought aside and brought Faith right down to Sara's eye level for her thorough inspection. A nurse brought over a blanket and swaddled her, and all the while, thank God, Dr. Mills focused solely on Sara, closing her back up almost as quickly as she had cut her open.

Less than a minute later, the paper curtain was removed and they'd bandaged Sara and raised her bed up enough to allow her to hold her baby. She stared down at Faith and said, "Let Linc know, okay?"

But Michael just stared at them, because, was this real? Had this truly been this easy? He cast a quick glance to Dr. Mills, who checked Sara's BP and pulse again, and added, "All good." Blood spattered her scrubs, but only lightly, nothing like Dr. Coleson's, and the gloves she peeled off and tossed in the trash bin were only marginally stained red. She laid a hand on Sara's knee and said, "The epidural block won't wear off for another few hours, so if you want your family to visit, I suggest sooner rather than later. I'll stop back in to talk to you about pain management after that."

She nodded and said again, "Michael, call Linc. Mike will be worried for nothing."

 _Worried for nothing._

What an absolutely beautiful statement.

* * *

When he stepped into the hall to phone Lincoln, his brother seemed equally baffled by foreign phrases like 'everything went fine' and 'they're both doing great.'

"What do you mean?" Linc kept barking into the phone. Then, "But it's only 7:15 am!" He went from suspicious to cautiously optimistic pretty fast though, laughing with relief.

"Told you we have a great doctor," Michael reminded him, because now that everything was alright, he could enjoy feeling a bit cocky. "Bring the boys over so Mike can see Sara and the baby before his STEM competition," he requested. "Oh, and tell Ellie the news, too."

Sara and Faith were moved out of the OR to their own room, where Michael sat on Sara's bed with her, awaiting the kids' arrival. He tipped her face to his to kiss her, saying, "Did this really just happen?"

Sara presented their daughter to him, letting him settle her between them, into the crook of his arm. "Exhibit A," she said. Faith slept now, in that way of newborns that suggested slumber was a full time, all-encompassing job.

"Exhibit B," he added, tracing the line of Sara's jaw with the pad of his thumb. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," she promised.

"When Dr. Mills comes back, will you consider—"

"Just let me enjoy this, Michael."

He smiled apprehensively at her, but looked back down at Faith and said, "She's beautiful, Sara. I don't care if you say I'm biased."

"I'm glad you're biased," she said. "She looks perfect to me, too."

After what seemed like only a very short time later, they heard the organized chaos that signaled their children's arrival echoing down the hallway, and then Mike burst through the room, trailed by Lincoln and Henry. He went straight to Sara, while Henry said, "Where is that baby, Dada?"

She was in Sara's arms again, and Mike peered down at her after embracing his mother gingerly. "She's so small," he marveled.

Lincoln held Henry up so he could survey the baby, too, then asked to hold her.

"Well, hi there, Faith," he cooed, which would have been music to Michael's ears after his brother had acted so stubbornly pessimistic all pregnancy, except…

"How do you already know her name?"

"Wait, what's her name?" Mike wanted to know. He hadn't fully heard his uncle.

Simultaneously Lincoln apologized, "I didn't realize it was a secret this time!"

He flung a glance at Sara, and Michael followed his gaze, asking resentfully, "You told him?" He'd thought the name would remain just between them until her birth, like with Henry.

"I…uh…no, not exactly," she hedged.

"What's her _name?_ " Mike asked again, more impatiently, so Michael let his questioning of Sara drop, for now.

"Faith Seraphina," he told Mike. "Faith because having faith—in what is right, in what and who we trust—has always served our family well, and Seraphina for your mom."

When Lincoln scoffed at this middle name, Sara said, "Not my doing." She turned back to Mike. "But I suppose it's only fair, since you're named after Dad."

Mike beamed at them. "I like it."

Henry said, "Faif?" glancing between the baby and Sara and Mike and Michael.

Sara confirmed this for him, telling Linc to lower the baby again so Henry could get a good look.

They all stayed for about another twenty minutes, then a nurse began the process of gently herding them out. The timing was perfect really; Michael worried about Sara's pain relief from the epidural wearing off, and Mike needed to get back home for Henry Pope to pick him up for the bridge competition.

"Remember," he told him, "you need to carry it by diagonal corners, one of you on each end."

"I know, Dad."

"And don't forget that you toyed with the suspension ratio, so you'll need to add a little wiggle room into your calculations you present to the judge panel."

"I know," Mike repeated. He smiled at him. "I got it, Dad."

Michael knew he did, but knowing it didn't lessen his desire to be there with him. It tore at him, as he looked between Mike, in the doorway, and Sara and Faith, in the hospital bed. "Call as soon as you know anything," he made him promise, as he departed with Linc and his brother.

When Michael came back to Sara's side, she said immediately, "I'm sorry about Linc. He happened to glimpse her name on some paperwork."

He sat down on the side of her bed, bringing Faith onto his lap. "What paperwork?"

She was silent for a moment. "Just some documents I had him hang onto, for safe keeping." When he glanced at her in confusion, she added reluctantly, "Legal stuff, that I thought I'd take care of ahead of time, to make things easier for you and the kids, if…"

Dread, cold and tight, slid down Michael's spine. Knowing the danger had passed, that this feeling of fear was now unnecessary, did little to dilute it. "What kind of legal stuff?" he asked, though he suspected he knew. "Medical directives?" he pressed, his mouth dry. "That sort of thing?"

"With Henry, there was so much I wished you didn't have to deal with," she tried to explain.

But he just said, _"Sara."_ A brittle reprimand.

"You know how you needed to feel very prepared this time? With a plan?" She waited for him to nod. "So did I."

His brain understood this, but every other part of him rejected her logic. "What all did you put together? I want to see this paperwork."

"No, you don't," she told him. "And I can destroy it all now." Her plans for a bonfire would become reality. The thought made her smile in satisfaction. "Although, I might as well keep the will."

"A will? Really?" Just how worried had she been that she wouldn't live through this? Because she'd done a damned good job convincing Michael of her confidence.

"And the letters."

He had the sense he shouldn't even ask. "You wrote letters?" he choked out.

She nodded, and tried to say casually, "You know I like the last word."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but found himself saying, "Can I read them?"

This request gave her pause. "You can read yours," she decided. "Maybe I'll hang onto the kids'. Give them to them one day."

She leaned against his shoulder to peer down at Faith, and he looked with her, because his eyes were in danger of clouding if he kept looking at Sara. "Do you think she looks more like Mike or more like Henry?" she asked.

Michael wasn't sure. He could see himself in his daughter, certainly—her coloring was similar to his, and her eyes and hair—but Faith wasn't the mini-me Henry was. She blinked up at them as her eyes sought to focus on their faces, and maybe it was Michael's imagination, but he thought he saw something fierce and determined shining through them. He bent to kiss her tiny nose. "More like you," he told Sara.

She smiled softly, but he watched her expression shift to a grimace. "Is the epidural wearing off?" he asked her.

"Yes," she sighed. She didn't bother to try and lie, which Michael took as a bad sign.

"Am I wasting my breath if I beg?" he asked softly.

She'd closed her eyes. "Can you get Dr. Mills? I want to ask her a few questions."

Before she could change her mind, he set Faith into her bassinet by the bed, more than happy to oblige.

* * *

The pain encroached, the heavy-duty anesthetic from the epidural fading slowly from her body, like a tide receding. It would be hard to bear soon, Sara knew. She'd wanted to try to nurse Faith first, before the pain hit in earnest, but she realized now that wasn't going to happen. The thought of balancing even such a small, lightweight person against her stomach sent a shudder through Sara.

"Toradol," she told Dr. Mills, when she approached her bed, trailed by Michael. It was the strongest non-narcotic pain reliever she could think of, like taking an extra-extra strength Advil. And it was slow to cross membranes, which meant she wouldn't pass it along to the baby in her breastmilk, like she would with narcotics.

"I'll have to check for availability," Mills said, though Sara could tell she was peeved that she hadn't thought of this solution herself.

"It's not too often used," she explained to Michael, admitting that it didn't work quite as well as narcotics. "Though it will be far better than nothing," she added, to remind him of the other option.

It took Mills awhile to produce a supply of the drug, and Sara did her best to suffer in silence while she waited. "Does the incision ache?" Michael asked, and she nodded tightly, though the pain was not an ache. It was a fire now, a scorching blanket of agony thrown over her, and she felt her eyes well with hot tears she hadn't intended to shed.

"Sweetheart," he said helplessly.

"It will be fine," she told him through clenched teeth, casting an arm over her face. "Why don't you…check in…with Mike?"

Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him glimpse the time. "The competition hasn't even started yet," he informed her.

That's when she knew this would be a very long day, if she couldn't get this pain under control. Thankfully, Dr. Mills was back within the hour. She started to ask Sara if she preferred to take a dose by oral pill or IV, then looked more astutely at the stoic set of her jaw and decided, "IV."

The relief was mercifully swift as the Toradol raced through Sara's system; within just a few minutes, she felt her muscles unclench and relax, and within five, her eyes had closed. No wonder she enjoyed drugs, she thought ruefully. They were wonderful. She heard Michael say 'thank you' to someone, or maybe 'Thank God,' and she roused herself to see if Faith should nurse, but felt Michael's hand guide her back down. "She's sleeping," he said. "Why don't you try to as well?"

She decided that was a very good idea.

* * *

While Sara and Faith slept, Michael supposed he should close his eyes, too. After all, he'd been awake since before dawn, watching Sara through half-closed lids, as she'd stared at the ceiling of their bedroom. He watched her now, too, instead of resting, studying her as she succumbed to sleep, counting each steady rise and fall of her chest under her hospital gown. He shifted his gaze to their daughter, in the bassinet beside the bed, and then lifted her into his arms gently. She didn't wake.

He hadn't been exaggerating, earlier. He thought Faith was truly beautiful, never mind that newborns weren't known for their looks. Because by 'beautiful', Michael hadn't just meant physically, though she was…she was. He meant her spirit, her soul, the light he could already sense shining from her. He knew he sounded as corny as a greeting card, but Michael didn't care. He meant all of it.

He studied her parted lips and her closed eyelids and dark eyelashes, her pristine, pink cheeks, her unblemished skin almost translucent. He tried very hard not to allow his mind to drag him brutally back to that cold night on the rooftop patio, when he'd told Sara they could not possibly have this perfect baby girl. He reminded himself he couldn't have known, he hadn't realized, that he had only been human…but it didn't help. He continued to judge himself with merciless condemnation. He wondered if he'd ever look at his daughter and not punish himself anew for the measures he'd thought he'd needed to go to that night. He fervently hoped so, because he planned to lay eyes on her as much as possible for the rest of his life.

"Forgive me, Faith," he entreated, just as he had to her sonogram image in utero. "It was because I love your mother so very much. You'll see how much. You'll see it always." This thought buoyed him somewhat, as Faith slept on, so trustingly, in his arms.

After watching her sleep awhile more, Michael made phone calls, starting with leaving a message for LJ, in a conference session in Miami. He rang Ellie next. Lincoln had given her the basics when he'd brought Henry back home, but Michael filled her in on the details. Talking to his son briefly on Ellie's phone—Henry wanted to know whether that baby was still there—reminded him to call Henry Pope, who didn't pick up. A moment later, however, a photo came through of Mike's bridge decked out with a blue ribbon, and Michael's FaceTime app bounced to life.

Mike's beaming face greeted him when he accepted the call, but the first thing he said was, "Mom's still okay?"

"She's great. How'd it go? Tell me."

Mike regaled him with the tale of his win step by step, assuring him he hadn't forgotten any part of his report he'd presented to the judge panel, and showing him, with Pope now holding his phone, a reenactment of his demonstration. "There were some other really good bridges," Mike enthused, taking back the phone to span the camera across the room to show his dad the competition.

"I am so proud of you," Michael told him, a phrase he would have uttered whether Mike won or came in last place.

"Do you think I could be an engineer one day, Dad?" he asked. Behind Mike, Michael could glimpse spectators walking around the table Mike's bridge sat on, surveying his work with interest. Pope shooed them away if they got too close in their admiration. It made him smile.

"Yes, or any number of other things," Michael told Mike. "Anything at all." He hoped Mike knew he'd be in awe of whatever he did.

"Can I come back to the hospital and be with you now?" Mike asked. Pope said something to him, and he added, "I can come straight there."

"Everything is fine here, if you'd rather go home and take it easy," Michael offered. "Ellie's there with Henry, and I know it's been a very busy morning." An understatement, for sure.

"I'd rather be with you and Mom and Faith," Mike insisted, and Michael relented.

"Your mom will love that. We'll see you soon."

He called Sara's clinic next, because Stacy had asked for an update, when they had one. The person who picked up at the reception desk wasn't Stacy, however.

"Dan, hello." _Shit._ "It's Michael Scofield."

Dan's tone shifted audibly from pleasant professionalism to acute anxiety. "Is she alright?"

 _You know what?_ Michael wanted to tell him. _You don't get to do that. You don't get to care this much. I do._ I _get to care._ But he said only, "Everything went fine. The baby was born early this morning. I thought I'd get Stacy. She wanted to know."

Dan sounded so relieved to hear this, Michael almost pitied him, waiting through this whole morning for news. "Stacy's at lunch, but yes, she'll be glad to know it." He paused. "We all are."

"I'm sure Sara will call in when she can," Michael told him, giving a cursory goodbye and disconnecting the call without offering the standard details: name, weight, height. It was petty, but he found he didn't want to discuss his daughter with Dan.

Faith had woken with a soft cry by the time he set his phone down, causing Sara to stir, too. He watched her open her eyes and take stock.

"How are you feeling? Better?" he asked.

She tried to sit up gingerly and winced. He frowned at her, raising her bed using the control panel a nurse had taught them to use. "Better," she conceded.

He offered her Faith, who quieted almost immediately at Sara's breast, her eyes gazing solemnly up at her mother's face as she nursed. Was there a more beautiful sight than seeing his child nourished in this way? Michael didn't think so, right now.

"What?" Sara said self-consciously. "She's doing great."

Michael just nodded mutely and leaned forward to meet his lips to hers. He probably surprised her with the intensity of his kiss, but she only smiled at him when she drew away, a hand cradled protectively over the top of Faith's head. "More good news," he told her, showing her the photo of Mike's award-winning bridge on his phone screen.

She smiled. "This is turning out to be a pretty good day," she noted.

"Not bad," he agreed. He caught her eye, and they both laughed, Sara wincing again.

* * *

Henry Pope dropped Mike off at the hospital a little after 2 pm, met the baby, congratulated Sara, and departed without letting them thank him nearly enough for helping out today.

"It was fun," he insisted. "I told you I looked forward to watching him win." He let them know Judy had been cooking some meals for them, which she'd drop off with Ellie.

Sara watched him leave with a brief wave, and said, "There was a time I'd definitely thought we'd closed the door on that relationship, both of us."

Michael nodded. "Just one of a long list of things I'm grateful for, right now," he told her.

They let Mike hold Faith for a while, as Sara plied him with questions about his competition.

"Remember how Henry immediately grasped my hand?" Mike said, trying to tempt Faith with his pinkie finger.

"And he's never let go," Michael smiled.

"I'm sure Faith will join the Mike Fan Club, too," Sara added.

"If Henry lets her," Mike laughed. He looked down at Faith, and mused, "She'll always be ten years younger than me. That's a whole decade."

"I know you'll always be there for her, her biggest brother," Michael told him.

"When I can drive a car, she'll only be six," Mike noted.

Sara shook her head in denial. "Don't remind me how old you're getting," she said. "You're my first baby. You'll always be."

Mike looked at his dad, then at his sister. "When I was a baby, there was no one to hold me in the hospital," he said bluntly, in that manner of his that cut straight to the heart of things, without discretion.

"I did," Sara corrected him swiftly. "I held you." She looked at him, and he studied her face, his eyes intent on her. "I'd had no idea I could fall in love with a person so fast."

This made Mike smile slightly, but he said to Michael, "But you weren't there. It wasn't like this, with everyone together."

"I'm sorry it had to be that way," Michael told him gravely. "You're right that it wasn't the same as today. As now."

Mike looked between his parents. "Was I…not supposed to be born then? Do you think I was supposed to be born later, when Dad could be with us, like Henry and Faith?"

Sara studied him in consternation. Was he asking, in ten-year-old Mike logic, if he had been planned?

Before she could answer, Michael said definitively, "You were born to two parents who loved you, and who loved each other. That means you happened exactly as you were meant to happen."

"You were a gift," Sara added quietly, lying back against her pillow. "A greater gift than you'll ever know."

Surely, Mike could have poked holes in this sentimental rationale, but remarkably, he accepted these answers. "Well, we're all here now," he said with satisfaction.

Yes, Sara thought with certainty. _We're all here now._


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Work safe chapter, folks. As for where I'm going from here: it is my intention to have one more chapter of Something New after this one, which will conclude this fic. Does that mean I'll (finally) be done with the Scofields? I doubt it…I've learned never to say never. And the way I plan to end it, you'll see there is potential for more to be written. But I'll be done at least for a time. Happy New Year, everyone.**

By late afternoon on Faith's birthday, Sara talked Michael and Mike into returning home. "I'll be back right after dinner," Michael told her, kissing her and Faith goodbye.

"To sleep on this couch?" she asked. "Michael, you really don't need to." He should recharge…she could see him in the morning.

But he didn't even pretend to consider this. "There's no reality in which I'm not sleeping here with you tonight," he told her matter-of-factly. "I've already confirmed with Ellie."

She didn't have the strength to argue and didn't really want to, anyway. At least Ellie would get a break for a few hours, she thought, an assumption she had to amend when, not an hour later, she showed up at Sara's hospital room.

"I couldn't go another minute without meeting her," she smiled apologetically.

But Sara was happy to see her and to show off Faith, who Ellie instantly fawned over. She sank down onto the chair next to the bed, cradling the baby in her arms. "I was so worried, this morning," she said, adding with a sigh, "She's so beautiful."

They talked about the birth and how it was going for Sara with her pain management options, then Sara steered the conversation back to Ellie. The preparations for and the countdown to Faith's birth had been all-encompassing, but Ellie had a graduation coming up. "Are you excited about the ceremony next week? We should be able to be there, all of us." The thought made her very happy; she'd been afraid to commit, not knowing how today would go.

Ellie smiled at this plan, but added with a laugh, "Though if you really want to enjoy the graduation, you should let me watch Henry."

"Ha, sure, you won't be occupied or anything." Sara smiled, then sobered, mostly because she kept forgetting that laughing hurt. She didn't want to ask, because she didn't want to know the answer, but: "How's the job search going?" With Ellie's degree in-hand, Sara knew she'd have her pick of pediatric R.N. positions in the city.

But Ellie kind of shrugged, keeping her attention on Faith. "I haven't found anything right for me yet," she said.

"Really?" Sara spouted off two or three leads she'd been given for Ellie just last week.

Ellie kept looking down at the baby in her lap. "The thing is," she said softly, "I really love what I'm doing now."

"Ellie." Sara waited for her to look up. "We love you. We will be lost without you. But we'll figure things out. Your aunt won't thank me for hanging onto you, wasting your potential."

"That's not what Aunt Katie said to me," Ellie ventured. "She told me, 'If the Scofields need you, you should stay on.'"

 _Oh, Katie._ "She didn't," Sara said softly.

Ellie nodded. "She did. And to be honest, I can't bear the thought of not seeing Henry every day."

She knew Ellie enjoyed a special bond with her middle child. She really did see him nearly every day. "But Ellie…"

"He had a tough time today, Sara. Faith's arrival is confusing to him. If I were to leave…another change…I can't bear it," she repeated.

"But your degree," Sara protested. "You've worked so hard for it, and you should use it."

"I've seen the entry-level salaries on the nursing listings I'm qualified for," Ellie told her. "I make more working for you. Though," she added, as she often did, "you pay me too much."

Nonsense. She and Michael couldn't put a price on what Ellie did for their family. "But it's not just the money." She had no desire to talk Ellie into leaving them, but felt she had to take an honest stab at it.

"No, that's true, and I was thinking," Ellie said. "If I could reduce my hours to four days a week instead of five—Michael could probably work around that, if it was on, say, Fridays—then I could work that one day a week at the children's free clinic downtown. I have a standing offer there. I only need 30 nursing hours a month to keep my license current, and doing so would keep my foot in the door for jobs later on." She looked at Sara with what looked like near desperate hope, tacking on, "The clinic would be volunteer work, but you and Michael would only pay me for the days I'm with you, of course."

Honestly, they'd pay whatever it took to keep Ellie, but this plan of hers had given Sara an idea. "Or if you'd rather, you can work for me at my clinic," she offered. "It would be paid, and we could work your hours out exactly how you want them. We always need pediatric nurses."

"Really?" Ellie said. "You'd consider that?"

Of course she would. Sara thought she might cry, actually, she was so relieved. Despite telling Ellie not to worry, she'd had no idea what they'd do when she went back to work in September. "And we'll continue to pay you the same at our house, of course, Ellie," she insisted. "More, actually…because what am I thinking? There's more to do now." They both looked down at Faith and smiled again, and when Ellie looked back up, she positively beamed.

Sara said, "Oh, come here." She held her arms out to Ellie, who set Faith gently back in her bassinet before hugging Sara.

"Thank you, thank you," she said, as though Sara had done _her_ the favor.

* * *

Sara and Faith stayed in Northwestern for four days. Faith had been born premature, after all, and though Sara wanted to leave earlier, both Dr. Mills and Michael reminded her of the way she'd bled after returning home to Henry. At least she didn't have to stay behind after her baby went home this time: Faith remained with her until she was discharged on the 18th.

On the days in-between, Michael kept Mike occupied in a soccer camp and Ellie brought Henry to visit with her regularly. On the third day, he laid his head against Sara's chest (mercifully, she was feeling less tender by now, even after graduating to only Advil for pain) and said, "You live here now, Mama?"

"No, Henry, of course not." She brushed his hair back from his eyes. He'd need a haircut again soon. "We're coming home tomorrow, probably."

He eyed Faith, tucked against Sara's opposite arm as she attempted to hold both children at once. "That baby can stay here, I think," he decided. "'Cause there's not room."

Sara told him evenly, "You know there's room, Henry. Faith has her very own room, in fact, upstairs. You helped get it ready, remember?"

Henry just pushed into her side, creating more space for himself on the hospital bed. Sara told herself to give him the benefit of the doubt, but was fairly certain his goal had been to dislodge Faith altogether. She wrapped her arm around his little body.

"I love you so much, Henry," she told him. "I've missed you, while I've had to be here in the hospital."

"I missed _you_ more, Mama," he told her, like they were in competition.

"Okay," she allowed with a sigh. "But you know that Faith is our baby," she told him as diplomatically as she could muster, "and she _is_ coming home to us."

Henry just frowned, his disgruntled expression a mirror of Michael's when faced with a reality he wanted to reject. God, did she ever love him. _You're lucky you're so cute_ , people often joked to Henry when he was naughty. And they were right. How could anyone stay mad at that face? As if on cue, he smiled up at her angelically.

"Your charm act isn't going to work on me," she told him, but it already had, of course. She let him cuddle up with her, keeping Faith safely out of arm's reach.

* * *

Each morning at home, Henry liked to say, "Oh, that baby's still here?" when he woke up and saw Faith. Sara seemed to have endless patience with this routine, but Michael was starting to see red.

"You know her name," he told Henry sternly. "And you know she's staying."

The final straw came the very next day, when Henry thought he could whack Faith on her pajama-clad thigh with a train track piece undetected as he passed her in her baby seat. Based on the look of abject surprise and dismay on his face when Michael bellowed, _"Henry Charles!"_ , he clearly hadn't realized his father stood nearby.

"Out, right now. To your room!"

"Michael," Sara started hesitantly, as Henry scooted out of the room fast as his legs would carry him, tears already flowing, but he cut her off, so angry, he could scarcely see straight.

"That's it," he shouted, hoping Henry could still hear him. "He thinks he can hit his baby sister?! He's getting a spanking."

"So," she pointed out slowly, "in order to teach him it's wrong to hit someone smaller, you're going to…hit someone smaller?"

As much as Michael wanted to ignore this logic, he couldn't. "Ugghh!" He hit the wall instead and forced himself to retreat in the opposite direction from Henry's room. He knew his nerves were shot due to sleep deprivation as much as by his son's behavior. Faith wasn't much for letting her parents rest at night.

After a few minutes, he returned and headed toward the stairs, promising Sara, "I'm calm now."

Upstairs, he could hear Henry in the throes of an impressive tantrum. He was talented at these: Sara said once she hadn't understood what people meant by 'Terrible Twos' until Henry came along…at the same age, Mike had been two going on twenty. When Michael stepped into his room, however, Henry ducked away from him under his bedcovers.

"Henry, come on out." He knew Henry was far too intelligent to actually believe Michael couldn't see him if _he_ couldn't see Michael.

"Don't be mad, Dada," he entreated, still from the sanctuary of his bed.

"Come out," Michael repeated firmly.

Henry emerged slowly, eyes still wet with tears, his cheeks muddled with red splotches. "I didn't hit her too very hard, Dada," he said, staring stonily at Michael.

He had to take a deep breath. "Henry. You know not to hit anyone, at all. And certainly not the baby. Ever."

They stared each other down. Henry was good at this too: his glare could actually be formidable. "'Cause you like her best already?" His little body practically shook with indignation.

"Henry, no. I love her _and_ I also love you. And Mike." He sat down on his bed, inviting Henry to come to him. He watched him try to resist, then cave, pressing himself to Michael's stomach. He drew him up on his lap, where Henry continued to bury his face, now into Michael's chest. "You know, when you were born, the first time I held you, I fell in love with you just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Just by looking at you. One look, and I knew everything was going to be good, always."

"Always?" Henry repeated. Michael knew he didn't follow most of what he'd said; it was alright…Michael said it for himself, really.

He nodded. "And Faith being here now doesn't change that. She doesn't change that I love you. I can love her and love you just the same as always."

"Always like on and on, like In-fin-ty?" This was a word Mike had taught him one recent afternoon, as they'd looped his train track in a perfect, closed circle.

"Yes, infinity." Of course, what he didn't have endless supplies of were time and attention, and Henry deserved a bigger portion of both right now. No matter that Michael felt bone tired, pretty much all the time. "What if," he suggested, "we go to the park for a while? You and me."

"To the curly slide park?"

Michael had been thinking of Oz Park, right across the street, not the one by Mike's soccer field, but, "Sure."

"Just us? Not with that—not with Faif?"

"Just us." He wiped the tears that still clung to Henry's long eyelashes. "Would you like that? Because I would."

Henry nodded, and Michael found his shoes and put them on his feet. Downstairs, he told Sara they'd swing by to pick up Mike from camp after playing for a while, and be back before dinner. And to try to rest when Faith slept. _If_ she slept, that was.

At the park, Henry ran straight to the slide, which he climbed straight up, in the way that wasn't supposed to be allowed. Michael let him. Then joined him, grabbing at Henry's ankles as he tried to scurry up the slide, listening to his laugh echo against the metal tube.

The exercise and fresh air helped his mood as much as it helped Henry's. He suddenly thought of his first park visit with Mike, the day after his return. How unsure he'd been, sitting with Sara, watching Mike on the monkey bars. How afraid he'd been of messing up as a father. _There's no manual,_ Sara had told him, and was that ever true. He still found himself questioning his parenting skills on a near-daily basis, but had learned that kids, at least his kids, proved to be tremendously resilient. Henry would be fine.

They had the park to themselves for the better part of an hour before being joined by a woman with a little girl about the same age as Henry. When Henry climbed onto the swing next to her daughter, she gushed to Michael, "He's adorable," adding with a sidelong glance, "He looks just like you."

"Oh, well, thank you," Michael told her. Thinking he should probably acknowledge her kid, too, he tacked on, "How old is your daughter?"

This was all it took to get her talking, and Michael found himself trapped for the length of a one-sided conversation about how tough it could be, as a single mother. "I'm sure it must be very hard," he agreed. He pictured Sara with Mike at this age, secure in the knowledge that despite the challenge of raising their son alone, she had _not_ been trying to pick up men in parks.

"Are you giving your wife a break at home?" she probed.

Because Henry listened intently to everything, Michael said, "Actually, I'm the one getting the break, playing at the park, right Hen? Though Mama will be glad to see us."

Henry smiled at him on his next arc backward, and Michael grinned back. Happy boy, and message sent: wife? Check.

Still, the woman didn't seem ready to give up quite that easily, following them from the swings back to the slide, where she fussed at her daughter to follow the rules, sliding down only the correct way. It didn't take too much coaxing to talk Henry into leaving shortly thereafter, though Michael hedged his bets by throwing in a promise of a cookie at the coffee stand near Mike's soccer field.

"You know dat lady, Dada?" he asked as Michael buckled him into his seat.

"Nope."

"I think she wants to be your friend doh."

"Maybe so, Henry." He smiled at him. "But I think I have all the friends I need."

* * *

The weather was beautiful that evening, and they BBQed in the backyard, watching Mike and Henry kick the soccer ball around. Sara still needed to take it easy, but she looked good to Michael, if tired. The sun brought healthy color to her cheeks as she sat on the patio, Faith in her arms. She smiled at him when she caught him looking at her.

"I want you to get more rest," she told Michael when he eased down into the chair next to her after passing the soccer ball back to Mike.

He looked over at Faith, alert and active. "Doesn't seem too likely," he noted pleasantly.

"But you know it's important, especially since you're not taking anything for anxiety right now," she pressed quietly.

He relieved her of Faith and smiled down at his daughter. "I don't need anything for anxiety," he told Sara.

He knew he didn't completely have her convinced, but thought he might have come close because she didn't argue. She rose slowly but steadily, calling to Mike and Henry to come inside. Michael moved to rise, but she set a hand on his shoulder. "Let me. I can get them ready for bed if they cooperate. And if they don't, I'll come get you."

This seemed like a fair deal, especially since it gave her a break from the baby, but she returned to the patio not a minute later. He figured Henry had already given her trouble, but no. She set a letter-sized envelope with his name penned in her handwriting on the table next to him. "In case you meant it, when you said you wanted to read," she said. She looked hesitant for him to do so, though, adding, "And if you decide you didn't, that's fine too."

He eyed her sealed letter like it was both a snake and a siren song. "Okay," he said softly. "Thank you." He waited for her to go back inside to draw Henry's bath, then reached over Faith for the letter, tearing it open carefully with one hand.

 _Michael,_

 _Well, here we are. We've always figured the odds that have chased us would one day catch up to us. How many times could we feel the rush of wind that signaled the brush of a bullet, without it finally hitting its mark? It's alright. I've known for a very long time that if I died young, it would be for you, and that it would be worth it. Back then, when we faced this reality every day, my only fear was that however it happened, my death would be used to hurt you. It would torture you or compromise you. It would become a catalyst for something far worse. Now I know that won't happen. You'll be alright. You'll remain untouched. You'll raise our children, and you'll remember me in them, and yes, you can do this. We've been apart before. We've carried on._

 _I meant what I told you: I have no regrets. When I met you, I was in the midst of trying to rebuild my life, in the process of constructing something I could be proud of again. I know you think you tore that down, but you didn't. You were what made it worth inhabiting, even if it was a little worse for the wear once you were done putting your mark on it. I am not certain how early on I fell in love with you, but I can tell you when I became aware of it: standing in the corridor on the bottom floor of Fox River, watching you exit the conjugal room. Yes, that soon after meeting you. And no, it did not make for the sturdiest of foundations. But we built upward from there anyway, didn't we? And by the time you were on the outside and I met up with you in Gila, you were the most solid thing in my existence, my feelings for you the only thing tangible amid the rubble of my life. You were simultaneously a sanctuary and a roadblock, a manifestation of my fear and my hope. You were so frightening and frustrating to me then._

 _And since? Oh, Michael. Your presence has never_ not _shadowed me, everywhere, always. Together…apart…it doesn't matter. I know this, because I felt it, as physical as though you were right there, while I watched your ship sail away without me to Panama. As I sat restrained in that shack with Gretchen and LJ, knowing you were still alive in Sona only because they kept taking new photos of me. When I had to push open that Miami-Dade door and start a life alone. All the years following._

 _It will be the same for you. Your love for me won't go away, just because I'm gone, though the truth is, there will be days you'll wish it would. I know you've had a taste of this, after Sona, but I lived with you dead for seven years, so I have some tips. You can expect to feel really, really angry with me. That's okay…go ahead. I can take it, and I can certainly understand it. But please don't let Mike see, because I'm not sure I can bear for him to be angry, too. He's too young to be bitter. Always remember he'll follow your lead, Michael. If you decide to hate me for this, Mike will as well._

 _But before you feel anger, you'll feel denial. Knowing you, you'll want to spend a great deal of time here, but please try not to. It's hard on your brother. And right now, Lincoln is very worried about you. Maybe he's not showing it in the best way; probably, he's yelling at you and the opposite of helpful, but don't leave him alone in this…that's not fair to him._

 _I know it will be hard to care about any of that…about anyone else at all. It will be hard just to get out of bed. But you will, for the kids. You'll do that for me, even if you have to force yourself to rise. Our boys are worth waking up each day for, Michael, and, while I don't know for certain because I can't know as I write this…I believe, I feel very certain, that you have our daughter with you now, too. In her letter, I call her by her name, but you should know: if you have decided to change it or call her by her middle name, that's okay. I hope you won't, I hope you'll still call her Faith, but if you can't bring yourself to do so in light of what happened, I know you'll still tell her, early and often, that her birth was a good thing. That she made me happy. That I loved her and wanted her so much. I know you will._

 _She won't ever know me, and probably, though it makes my heart hurt to think it, Henry will mostly forget me, too. But that just means they'll come out unscathed, right? And you know how I hate scars. You and Mike…I am so sorry to both of you. You don't know how sorry: it makes my chest constrict so I can hardly breathe, sitting here, writing this. But it will get better, Michael. Not for a long time, but I promise it will. One day, you'll look at one of our children because maybe they will have smiled in a certain way or said a phrase that made you think of me and it won't be a sad thought. It won't hurt in that suffocating way it hurts now. Maybe our daughter will look like me. I don't know. Maybe she'll grow up and remind you of me. Or maybe Mike will. Yes, probably Mike will. And Henry will most likely remain completely his own person, taking the world on without apology or fear. Be patient with him. He loves you so much._

 _We all do. You're the love of my life. And I will have died considering myself impossibly lucky because I truly believe not everyone gets one of those. That in fact, few people do. And you won't believe me (because you're so angry right now), but I am so, so sorry to leave you._

 _Be happy. Please, please be happy._

 _Sara_

Michael set the letter back down on the table. It suddenly felt too heavy to hold. He stared out across the yard, eyes focusing on nothing. Faith stirred in his arms, and he lifted her to his chest, taking comfort in the solid weight of her. He watched twilight fall over the yard, his mind oddly blank, as though stuffed with cotton. It was a mercy, he decided, a defense mechanism so he wouldn't stomp into the house and shake Sara by the shoulders, demanding a reason why she'd do this to him…why she'd write him such a perfect, painful letter. He was reminded of how he'd felt once when she'd offended him in a dream: even after waking, he'd remained senselessly angry with her.

* * *

Even after Sara got Henry tucked in and Mike reading in his own bed, Michael hadn't come back inside with Faith. She found him still on the patio, her letter open and set aside on the table. She paused in the doorway of the kitchen and patio, studying him for a moment. She couldn't read his expression with his back to her, but he stared out at their yard, Faith to his chest, his hand cradling her head to him.

"Michael?"

He eased the baby into her seat on the ground next to his feet; Faith startled and looked like she might protest leaving the warmth of his body, but then her own fist crossed her line of vision, distracting her.

"Well, you're right," he said, turning slowly to face Sara. "I'm definitely angry." When his eyes met hers, she felt this indignation thoroughly. He glanced away with a hard laugh. "I mean, you know, I _would_ be. Angry. Like you said."

"And angry now, too?" Because he definitely was.

He looked apologetic, like he knew this was ridiculous. "Of course not," he said, but then he grabbed her letter and tacked on fiercely, "I can burn this, right? I can burn it right now?"

"It's yours to do with whatever you want," she ventured slowly, taking care not to show him this hurt her. Though she'd predicted how he'd react to this letter in the event he actually needed to receive it, she'd had no idea what to expect from him reading it tonight, with her standing in front of him. Not like this, she realized now.

He seemed conflicted too, like he knew she was standing there, alive and well, but also didn't trust it. She took a chance, closing the few steps' distance between them to curl her arms around his neck. He remained still for just a second, then pulled her against him forcefully. He held her very tightly, his arms locked around her, his face buried against her neck. He kept her there a long time, long enough for her to slowly realize he cried softly, and then less softly, into her hair.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have showed you."

"it's just…too many times," he told her roughly. "Too many times we've had to do this."

"But we're not doing it now," she reminded him. "Everything is fine." She ran her hand up and down his back, trying to soothe him while still pressed tightly against his body. When he didn't respond to this, she said, "When you thought I'd died in Panama, how did you find out?" She'd never asked. She'd never wanted to know.

"Linc," he told her.

This revelation landed with a heavy thunk in Sara's brain. Lincoln's distaste for discussing Sara's mortality took on a deeper significance, his observation that he always played the role of grim reaper carrying more weight. _Goddamn it…poor Lincoln._

"After the shock of what he said," Michael whispered, "I remember this feeling coming over me, like all meaning, all purpose, was just slipping away from me, just vaporizing in front of my eyes. And without it…without you…I was just empty. Floating. Nothing." He sucked in a ragged breath. "That's what would happen," he told her tightly. "I know, because it _did_ happen, and the kids…they would just be…alone."

"No, they wouldn't. You'd react differently, because of them."

"I'm not going to find out," he told her harshly, like this was a decision he could come to. He pulled back in the circle of her arms enough to study her face, caressing her jaw and cheekbone not unlike when she'd first returned to him, after Sona. In the twilight of their backyard, long shadows fell over his face, settling under his eyes, and she had time to think he looked too tired, very worn down, before he kissed her long and hard, in a manner that put an exclamation point behind his words. They were definitely done discussing Sara's non-death, forever.

It was several long minutes later before he released her, and she bent to pick up Faith. "Go burn it then," she told him. "Burn it right now."

* * *

At two weeks old, Faith slept no more soundly than on her first few nights at home. Sara reminded herself not to compare her to Mike or Henry; she was smaller than they'd been at her age, after all. She did amazing, considering she'd been born early, but needed to nurse more often. Still, three to four feedings a night were wearing thin. Sara and Michael were as exhausted now as they'd been right after her birth-more so, actually—Michael especially, who slept so lightly anyway. He woke for every feeding though he didn't need to, often remaining awake with Faith afterward.

While Sara continued to recover from the C-Section, he insisted on doing far more during the day, too, resuming work while remaining the primary caregiver for both Henry and Faith. They'd given Ellie some time off after her graduation since they were both home anyway, but Sara had begun to think she'd need to call her in. Michael pushed himself too hard. She saw the way his eyes closed during the middle of the day, and the short fuse he'd adapted, though with himself only, over the smallest things: when he spilled Henry's juice before setting it at his place at the table, when he misplaced the tiny hat he'd just dug out of the diaper bag for Faith.

"Sleep in the guest room a few nights," she offered, because why should he wake up for every feeding? She needed him recharged, and his sleep deprivation had begun producing additional side effects: she'd counted several panic attacks he thought he'd hidden from her in the past few days alone. PTSD always manifested itself most aggressively when he was depleted, his brain defenseless from lack of sleep.

But Michael dug his heels in, stubbornly refusing to take a break. Tonight, Faith had already woken twice; at her third feeding sometime around 4 am, Sara barely gained consciousness to nurse her…luckily she lay only an arms-length away. They'd given up on the bassinet; Faith slept right in bed with them now, in an attempt to keep her asleep longer stretches.

While Faith nursed, Sara hazily registered Michael's restlessness beside her. Though it seemed he'd actually remained asleep this time, he tossed and turned almost violently. Was he dreaming of something upsetting? This wasn't terribly unusual; unfortunately, Sara was used to Michael's nightmares. It helped to wake him from them before they could play out, and she meant to, but felt herself dropping back off, succumbing to sleep again as Faith quieted against her.

The next thing she knew, she was aware of Michael sitting up beside her, shoulders bent inward, breathing in hard, desperate gasps. A full-blown PTSD episode, and a bad one at that: even in the darkened room, through the haze of sleepiness, she could see the blank look on his face, the distance in his eyes, the corded muscle along his bare arms taut with tension. Michael always told her to give him some space when it got this bad, and in hindsight, she should have taken Faith and left the bed, but hoping to talk him down, she reached out to him instead.

Michael's hand immediately gripped her forearm like a vice, the pads of his fingers pressing deeply into her flesh as he continued to gasp for air.

"Michael," she cried, "Michael, look at me." And then he did, but not with the recognition and apology she expected to see. He stared at her with an odd intensity that shifted to raw hunger before her eyes. It made her think he wanted…like he wanted…and that's when she realized how far away from her he really was, because she was still in early recovery from her C-Section. He knew she was still in pain. He'd never ask her for sex tonight if cognizant.

"Michael." She pressed her free hand to his chest, pushing him back from her, hoping he'd let her guide him back down against his pillow.

Instead, he reacted to her touch with a lightning quick reflex, as though needing to defend himself. She bit back a cry of pain as she felt _herself_ land with force back onto the bed instead. The shock of this sudden violence took the breath from her lungs, and when she drew air, she managed only, "Michael! Watch Faith!"

But he didn't even glance in his daughter's direction. "Look at me," she pleaded again because he was scaring her. He was absolutely not present, gripped in the clutches of a level of PTSD she had no idea how to break him from. He still hadn't released her arm, and pain shot up to her shoulder. The jarring offense of this had her own heart racing. He stared down at her, sweat beading on his forehead, face flushed. What did he see? He seemed to grapple with the same question, which gave her hope. She hauled herself upward with all her effort, rising through screaming pain—she was in no shape to be performing an abrupt sit-up yet—and maybe she actually cried out this time, because suddenly, Michael's hands fell away from her as quickly as they'd gripped her a moment ago, and he slumped in exhaustion, arms now braced on the mattress.

When he looked back up, he blinked at her. "Sara?" he said, like she'd just appeared out of thin air. "What are you doing? Don't get up like that. Lie down."

She stared at him, making sure he was really back, that he was actually aware, and then she just began shaking. She absolutely couldn't stop shaking.

"What's wrong?" he said again, and then, "Hey, careful of Faith," and she began to sob, too. "Sara?" A note of alarm slid into his voice as he felt his own damp forehead. Surely, he could also feel his heart racing. "Did I have a panic attack?" he added fearfully. "What did I do?"

She couldn't answer him. She scooted backward carefully to lean her back against the headboard. She still couldn't stop shaking and crying. She'd talked him through so many panic attacks, and he'd never done anything like this. Faith stirred and began whimpering too, and Michael reached over to her and Sara managed to say, "No." She wasn't sure yet whether he was really all the way returned to them. "I'll get her."

"What did I do?" he said again. "Is she alright?"

"She's fine," she managed, settling her against her chest. He laid a hand on Sara's, and she flinched without intending to.

"Are _you_ alright?" he whispered.

She wanted to say yes, but something in her demanded honesty. "No," she told him quietly. "I'm not alright." She didn't want to cause him pain, she knew he hadn't intended this, but, "You hurt me, and you scared me."

She watched this gut him. At first, he stared at her in utter shock. _Yeah,_ she wanted to say. _That's how I felt._ She didn't tell him how much effort it had taken to bring him to his senses, though maybe she didn't need to; he could see the pain registered on her face. Her abdomen still throbbed at the incision site of her surgery.

His expression had gone ashen; he looked like he might become ill. "I'm so sorry," he choked. "Sara, I'm sorry."

"I know," she told him, but she couldn't bring herself to comfort him. _She_ wanted comforting, but not from him. It was very confusing. "Sh-sh-sh," she told Faith softly, patting her back gently, though it was really Michael Sara should soothe. He grieved now in hard sobs, an arm slung over his face, while Sara stared out across the dark room and tried to stop shaking.

* * *

It was as Dr. Hawthorne had told him again and again: Michael needed to apply his own theoretical oxygen mask before others', or the people he loved would suffer. Why couldn't he do it? Why couldn't he remember to take care of himself first? His penchant for self-loathing reached a new low as he turned on the bedside light to examine the bruise already darkening the skin on Sara's arm.

He pinched his eyes tightly shut to the sight. "Oh my God I'm sorry," he told her again. "So, so sorry."

She nodded. "I know," she answered again, but the somewhat distant look on her face had him wondering how many times he'd need to circle back to his apology before it landed.

"I need to go back on Paxil," he decided harshly.

"You just need sleep," she insisted. "Sleep is critical."

He turned to stare at the wall. It was hard to look at her, knowing he'd grabbed her like that. Had been rough. And with their infant right beside them. He had absolutely no recall of what happened. He'd been dreaming of Yemen, and then he'd been retreating down a long, dark hallway in some prison somewhere, and then…nothing. It was terrifying to know he'd been unreachable, even to the person he loved so fully.

"Sleep in the guest room," Sara pressed. "If you won't, Faith and I will." She didn't say this in anger, but she wasn't mincing words, either. She still sounded shaken.

He knew neither of them would sleep more tonight, but he rose slowly anyway, kissing her on the forehead before departing.

In their guest bedroom downstairs (the only one in the house now that the upstairs room had become Faith's), he stretched out on top of the made bed and slung an arm over his eyes. They stung with fatigue, though he harbored no illusions of finding relief. No doubt he would wallow in self-loathing until dawn. The next thing he knew, however, he was opening them to a room filled with mid-morning light and the sounds of his children down the hallway in the living room. Glancing at the clock on the dresser by the bed, he realized he had slept at least four hours.

He did feel much better, his head clearer and less achy. More focused. He rose to find Sara in the library checking email from work and sending out instructions to her staff for the week. She balanced Faith on her lap. Michael noticed she wore a long-sleeved collared shirt, a detail that instantly darkened his brighter outlook this morning. Though it was lightweight and one of his favorites, it was too warm a day for sleeves. Another vicious wave of remorse had its way with him; he felt like an abusive husband…they usually felt sorry afterward too, didn't they? God, was it easy to hate himself today.

But she smiled at him when she saw him, and looked so pleased to know he'd slept that he forced himself to smile back at her. "Want me to take her?" he asked.

"She's fine here," she said. "Why don't you grab something to eat?" Michael tried not to read anything into this. Sara wasn't hesitant to trust him with Faith. She was just being thoughtful, suggesting he further care for himself before taking care of his family. Right?

In the kitchen, Mike was in the process of making a peanut butter sandwich, probably for his lunch. When he looked up to see Michael, he offered to make one for him, too. He accepted this offer, even though it wasn't quite the breakfast he'd had in mind, and sat down to watch his son pull out more bread from the cupboard and an extra plate from the rack. "Do you remember," he said suddenly, "that first breakfast we made together in Ithaca? For Mom?"

Mike spun around and offered Michael a slightly confused look. "Yeah. Do you want eggs instead?"

Michael shook his head. "I was just remembering. You had to climb up on the counter to reach the plates." Now, it only required tippy-toes.

Mike nodded at this like Michael had noted something truly profound before bringing two sandwiches to the table. Michael thanked him and Mike sat down next to him and said, "I can help with other stuff now, too, if you need it. I could do laundry, or I could watch Faith sometimes. I mean, as long as she's not hungry or tired or anything."

Michael tried to read Mike's expression as he tucked into his sandwich. "Thank you, son. I'm sure that would be really helpful."

Mike looked back up and added hesitantly, "'Cause you and Mom are so tired. Are you upset with her right now?"

"What? With Mom? No, of course not." Dual tendrils of fear and shame spun through Michael's gut and took hold. Why did Mike ask? What did he know?

"'Cause you slept downstairs," Mike added.

This kid missed absolutely nothing. Ever. It could be truly unsettling. Right now, it was terrifying. Michael hated to think Mike might see his flaws, learn of his many weaknesses, though he knew it was unhealthy to hide these things from him so thoroughly. And anyway, who was Michael kidding? There _was_ no hiding things from Mike.

"I slept downstairs because if I don't get enough rest, the panic attacks I sometimes experience get too severe," he heard himself say, in unvarnished honesty.

Mike looked as surprised as Michael felt at his father's rare transparency, but didn't let the opportunity pass to press for details. "Those attacks where you can't breathe?" he asked.

Mercifully, Mike had only witnessed a PTSD episode a handful of times. Michael nodded.

"Why do you have those, Dad?" Mike nearly whispered.

Michael took a long, slow breath, in his nose, out his mouth, as every therapist and psychologist he'd ever seen had taught him. "I have those because…you know how once you've seen something just once, the image remains in your brain, very clearly, sometimes days later, or…always?" Mike nodded. "Well, it's the same for me," Michael told him. "You and I are similar that way. And the problem is, I've seen some very bad things. While I was away from you and Mom, I was in some bad places and had to deal with bad people, and when you go through things like that, sometimes your brain needs to relive them again, to try to make sense of what you saw. My brain keeps processing things over and over, even though I don't want it to, especially when I'm tired."

Mike studied him for a long moment. "What kind of bad things, Dad?" Then he added in a rush, "I know you don't talk about prisons, but please?"

If Mike thought he was going to get details about prison life from Chicago to Yemen to Panama, he was very mistaken. Michael smiled sadly at him. "Prison is scary and dirty, just like you probably imagine, and also boring and lonely," he told him carefully. "But what actually makes prison so awful isn't just being locked up. It's…the feeling of being trapped." He forced himself to look his son in the eye. "Trapped in the prison, but also trapped in the decisions you make there, and by the people you make them with. Because you don't get to choose who you're trapped with. And sometimes, you don't even get to choose who you work with, to escape. But you _do_ make choices after that: who gets out, who gets hurt, who stays trapped…and those choices are the ones that get replayed, even years later, in your brain, as you try to work out if you were right or wrong."

"You were right," Mike said with youthful certainty. "Because you're here now, with us, and that's what matters."

"The end justifies the means?" Michael asked him softly, watching his ten-year-old turn this classic philosophical question over in his head. He predicted where MIke's logical mind would land, and he was right.

"Of course," Mike decided succinctly. "The 'end' is the outcome, and the outcome, or solution, is why we do anything, solve any problem."

"But then we live with it," Michael told him. "And it keeps us up at night, and it makes it hard to breathe. Don't ever forget that."

Mike nodded at him solemnly. "I won't forget, Dad."

* * *

Faith turned three weeks old on the 4th of July, and they celebrated by attempting their first family outing since her birth: a sail on the _Taj_ on Lake Michigan. It did not go smoothly, despite perfect weather and water conditions: Mike and Henry both fought summer colds, making them short-tempered and sniffly, and once underway, Faith wailed non-stop on the deck of the sailboat until Michael gave up and returned to the harbor. Now, it was still before dark, yet all three children were in bed: Mike and Henry succumbing to the effects of cold medication just after dinner, Faith following suit after her 8 pm feeding.

Michael looked at Sara and said with a raise of an eyebrow, "Looks like we have the house to ourselves. What do you want to do?"

She didn't hesitate: "Sleep."

He honestly couldn't think of anything he'd rather do, either, especially after he'd curled up against her in bed, Faith swaddled nearby. The window remained open to a warm evening breeze, and not even the occasional pop of their neighbors' bottle rockets and cherry bombs could shake the deep sense of peace he enjoyed, breathing in the scent of Sara's shampoo and the special fabric softener they used on Faith's blanket and pajamas.

"You don't wish we were staying up to see the fireworks?" Sara asked him sleepily.

They'd planned to view Chicago's grand display from their rooftop patio. "There's always next year," he told her, with a press of his lips to her cheek.

"And the year after that," she murmured.

He nodded, closing his eyes and drifting off to the feel of the welcome warmth of her body against his under the sheet.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I thought it might be fitting to end this fic on the last day of 2017 (at least it's still the 31st in my part of the world). NSFW in one section toward the beginning. Much gratitude for all your reviews and comments on Something New. I read each one of them, and appreciate the support very much. And yes, I'm turning over all your prompts for future WIPs in my head and considering them. For those who have asked, I will continue this universe in Mike's POV, so you can look for that, and I have a few other ideas of my own as well. If you want to stretch this last (12k+) chapter out, it could easily be broken into two sections. The epilogue is very long. All told, Something New hit over 122,000 words, which is far over novel length (and that doesn't count Afterward which is almost as long). Time to get back to my current novel, I think! :)**

At Faith's three month well-check, their pediatrician promised Michael that yes, it was quite within the realm of normal for an infant this age to still be waking multiple times per night. Especially a premature infant. And that in fact, it had been their sons who had been anomalies, sleeping so agreeably from a very young age.

"It's like Mike and Henry knew they needed to be gentle with us," Sara smiled. "Whereas Faith…she demands exactly what she's owed, everyone else be damned."

She sounded almost pleased by this, Michael thought. He looked down into Faith's sea blue eyes, so like Henry's and his own, and told her firmly, "You have to sleep at night, just like your brothers. No special treatment."

But then her searching gaze found his face and she threw a coy smile up at him, reaching up with both small arms outstretched, and he melted into a puddle of adoration. "Or not," he surrendered. "I guess sleep is overrated."

"No it's not, Papi," Sucre disagreed vigorously as they sat across from one another in the library later that day during one of their casual engineering firm meetings. He looked at Michael incredulously. "Sleep is the _best._ Well," he hedged, "the second best. It goes: sex, then sleep. Then Maricruz' tamales."

"Yeah, alright," Michael smiled. "Fair point. But what can we do? She cries if she doesn't eat at least twice a night. And sometimes, she just wants, I don't know…to be with me." He smiled indulgently like Sara had. Those times were the best.

"You let her cry," Sucre told him, articulating his answer carefully like Michael needed extra help understanding the concept.

"Not a chance," Michael told him. If he hadn't been able to let Henry cry at night, there was no way in hell he'd be able to stomach Faith's cries. "Our children know, right from the start, that they'll never be left alone. I will always come for them." He was firm on this, parenting books be damned.

Sucre just shook his head. "You'll spoil them, Papi."

"They seem to be turning out alright so far," he countered. They both watched Mike for a moment, working at Michael's desk. He'd given him the task of looking for holes in a client's firewall while he and Sucre talked. It was the Mike equivalent of handing a kid a coloring sheet to keep him occupied at a restaurant.

"Well, yeah, that's true," Sucre conceded. "Guess Sara's doing something right." He winked at him for good measure.

* * *

Lincoln had far less to offer in the way of parenting advice. "Did LJ sleep through the night easily?" Michael asked him one evening, as they sipped beers on the rooftop patio.

"Huh?" was Linc's succinct reply. "I dunno. I guess so."

"Father of the year," Michael laughed, then instantly wished he could take such a stupid, flippant statement back. Who was he to cast that stone? He started to apologize, but Linc cut him off, smiling sadly in the direction of the fire.

"Nah, that'd be you," he countered, but not in a sarcastic way. Not in a way that drew glaring parallels. He meant it. "This year, and last year, and honestly, every year since Mike was born."

When Michael immediately tried to argue this, Lincoln interrupted him almost rudely. "You were willing to go through hell for your kid," he pointed out gruffly. "Because you loved him before you'd even met him. Because there was no other way to keep him safe. When LJ was little, I was…who knows? Lifting stereos and partying with thugs."

"And scrambling to pay back money you'd borrowed for your kid brother," Michael added softly. He looked at Linc across the firelight. "Aren't we tired of trying to tip the scales one way or the other, Lincoln? Aren't we even yet?"

"You're right," Linc agreed. He tipped his beer symbolically toward Michael and touched the neck of his bottle to his. "We're both assholes."

The laughter that ripped from Michael's chest surprised him, abrupt and loud. It felt good. "Fair enough."

"But seriously," Lincoln pressed, once they'd both sobered. "Are you getting enough sleep? Because you look tired as hell."

"I…I'm working on it. I know I need more."

"Knowing you and Sara, you're probably using opportunities to rest to work on Baby Number Four instead."

"Ha, ha. Hardly." He tried to leave it at that, but his expression must have piqued his brother's interest. He studied him expectantly until Michael added, "Between bedrest during a high-risk pregnancy and recovery from the C-Section to Faith being so…well, demanding….it's been awhile."

"Awhile or _awhile_?"

Michael just looked at him. "I don't know what that means."

"It means, you clearly need to get laid. And get Sara laid. Jesus, it's been months? Is that what you're telling me?"

"I'd rather count it in weeks, thanks."

Lincoln just stared at him.

"It happens, Linc, when you have responsibilities and you're up all night for weeks on end, and I've been trying to work, though thankfully, Sucre's doing the heavy lifting, and _Sara's_ getting ready to go back to work, and I know that's consuming her attention, and…sex is just not top priority right now. It's not the end of the world."

He still just stared, like Michael had spoken in Arabic. He reminded himself that his brother had absolutely no concept of what family life required or what it took to make a marriage work, but still couldn't quite shake the look of utter pity and horror he leveled at him. He thought about how angry and hurt Sara had been when he'd neglected her after Henry's birth. This time, she'd been entirely too tired to raise a similar argument. Faith really was kicking their asses.

But Linc wasn't to be deterred. When they went back downstairs just past dusk, he called to Mike and Henry, shot a significant look at Michael, and said, "Which Scofield brothers want a sleepover at Uncle Linc's tonight?"

"Me!" Mike cheered, which, of course, make Henry echo, "Me, too!"

"Wait, what? Tonight?" Sara asked, baffled by this sudden offer.

"Please, Mom?" Mike asked.

"Yeah, please, Mom?" Lincoln parroted.

"I mean, sure, I guess," she agreed. "If you mean it?" she asked Lincoln, who nodded at her impatiently. "Go upstairs and pack a backpack with something to wear tomorrow, for both of you," she told Mike. Both boys already wore pajamas, so she added, as Mike scrambled up the stairs, "And put shoes back on your feet!"

When they'd departed in a wave of organized chaos, with Lincoln promising a game of Uno before bed and Cocoa Puffs _and_ pancakes for breakfast, Sara said, " _That_ was unexpected."

"But not unwelcome," Michael added, "to have the house—almost—to ourselves at 8 pm?"

Sara glanced at Faith, sleeping, for now, in her baby seat. "Not unwelcome, no," she agreed slowly, glancing upward at Michael as though to try to gauge his meaning.

He decided to make his intentions unmistakably clear, kissing her slowly and deeply in the kitchen, his arms around her waist, his hand palming the small of her back to draw her against him. Lincoln's car hadn't even pulled away from the curb yet, their boys probably still buckling into the back seat while Linc cursed the car seat he could never master, but if Michael wasted too much time, he and Sara would both be asleep.

She smiled against his lips, but then pulled back to regard him. "Was this planned?" she asked.

He laughed. "No, but I do think Linc pities us."

"Huh. I guess we are a bit pathetic these days." She tipped her face back up to him, and he kissed her again, feeling her hand curl around the back of his neck to keep him close. When he pulled back a second time, she impatiently reached back for him, her eyes telegraphing a need that stirred an acute hunger in his gut, sending warmth through his veins.

"Are you feeling…ready?" he asked her.

"Let's go upstairs," Sara whispered in answer.

He glanced at Faith, in her baby seat.

"She's fine."

"We have privacy in any room tonight," he reminded her, guiding her through the kitchen toward the library instead. The leather couch in there was oversized and closer to Faith than their bed.

She didn't argue, closing her eyes to his touch as his hands traveled her body over her clothes. "It's been too long," she accused on a sigh.

"I know." He smiled against her neck. "Your daughter is very demanding."

"Oh, _my_ daughter?"

"Yes, when it comes to consuming all my attention, she takes after you."

"Hmm." His fingers were unbuttoning her shirt, and she seemed more interested in assisting him than arguing.

When they'd finally freed one another of enough clothing to fall back onto the couch together, Michael heard a hum of contentment escape his lips. God, her bare skin on his felt good. It _had_ been too long. He made a mental note to never let this happen again. He lay on top of her, kissing her neck and jaw. "This is alright? You're alright?" he asked, studying her face for signs of discomfort or pain.

"This is fine, it's good," she promised him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, inviting him to press more firmly against her, and the hum in his throat turned to a groan, his thoughts flooding with the carnal.

"Thank God," he said, tugging off her underwear. Because he wasn't sure he could take it if she'd needed to backtrack now. The feeling was evidently mutual: they'd only been fumbling with clothing and tugging at zippers on the couch for a matter of minutes, but when he relieved her of the last barrier of clothing between them, he discovered she was already very wet. His fingers sank into the heat of her with ease, and they both groaned darkly again.

"This might be quick," he apologized ahead of time.

"Quick will work," she assured him breathlessly, shifting under him to assist him, kissing him almost frantically when his mouth found hers again. But just before he could press into her, she lay a hand on his chest and drew back, sucking in a quick breath. "Do you think…a condom would be…smart?"

There was no way she was in danger of getting pregnant, but they'd said that before, hadn't they? "They're all the way upstairs," he pleaded, but was already rising off of her body. "I'll be right back."

"Hurry."

He scrambled to tug back on his boxers.

"Why?" she said impatiently.

"I have to go right past the baby," he reminded her, to watch Sara scoff at him.

"Oh my God. She doesn't know…but whatever. Just hurry."

He was back less than a minute later, breathing hard as he pulled his boxers back off, and she laughed at the ridiculousness of all this, but not for long. Because not seconds after he rejoined her on the couch, Faith's predictable cry cut through the air.

"Don't you dare," Sara ordered him darkly, gripping his shoulders tightly to keep him nestled between her thighs. "Don't even think about it."

"I can't—"

"Yes, you damn well can."

He wasn't so sure of that, until she guided him inside her, locking eyes with him in abject challenge, and then, well, yes, he finally agreed it wouldn't hurt the baby to cry for just a few minutes. One long, deep thrust into Sara and he was lost in his own pleasure.

"Okay?" he asked her again a moment later when he'd returned to his senses, and she nodded, eyes dark with her own hunger, tightening her legs more firmly around him. When he hesitated once more when Faith's cries reached a higher intensity, Sara closed her hands over his ears and kissed him hard, drawing his attention back to her.

He rocked into her in rhythmic, deep strokes until her eyes closed to the sensation and her lips parted on soft gasps, and then he slid a hand between their bodies to touch her, because he wasn't going to last much longer, and he wasn't about to let Faith cry for nothing. Sara sighed in response to the slick slide of his fingers, and bucked up toward him to meet his next few thrusts; he felt her come on his hand and around his body just as his own release tore through him. He fell against her with a hard moan, his lips in her hair.

She lay under him, panting, her forehead damp. "Thank you," she whispered, her fingers trailing across his bare back. "I didn't realize how much I needed that." From the kitchen, Faith positively wailed in anger now, and after only a moment's recovery, she added, "Go get her. Pants optional."

Michael opted for pants again (he couldn't help but feel weird otherwise). When he lifted Faith up from her seat, she was hot and sweaty, having worked up so much righteous anger upon being abandoned. She flung her fists at Michael even as he tried to soothe her, and he had to laugh.

"She's pretty pissed off at us," he warned Sara when he brought her to the couch. Sara made room for her (unlike Michael, she didn't bother to dress) and nestled her against her bare skin. Michael grabbed a blanket and settled in with them, making a Faith sandwich under the covers. She slowly quieted against her parents, her sobs reducing to pitiful hiccups.

"I'm sorry, Faith," Sara told her softly. "But you don't get your father all the time. You have to share."

Michael chuckled against the back of Faith's little neck, reaching around her to tease the skin along Sara's bare hip.

"Remind me to thank Lincoln," Sara added, her eyes already closing.

"I'm not sure he always needs to know when he's right," Michael smiled, lifting Faith onto his chest to settle her to sleep.

* * *

Sara returned to work in mid-September, shamelessly taking advantage of every ounce of Dan's goodwill, staying home right up until his final week in the city before departing for his Doctors without Borders assignment. It wasn't that she didn't want to go back to work or even that she felt going back would in any way hurt her family; on the contrary, it was important to her to model women working professionally for her daughter…and for her sons, for that matter. That said, as the day of her return approached, Sara found herself almost panicky at the thought of leaving her baby at home (in the very capable hands of Michael and Ellie). It didn't help that Michael reminded her she didn't _need_ to return to work if she didn't want to. Because of course, she did. The clinic counted on her.

"Don't let a sense of misplaced duty dictate your decision," he told her.

"Look who's talking," she noted under her breath.

But her first day back ended up feeling much easier than she'd anticipated. Dan had done a great job keeping things humming along in her absence, making the transition of power seamless. And she had Ellie bring Henry and Faith to visit after lunch, so she (and her colleagues) could all get a baby fix.

Michael had also resumed a nearly full-time work schedule, with Ellie back to work for them at the house Monday through Thursday (and at the clinic with Sara on Fridays, as agreed). He and Sucre accepted several new clients, the first Michael had considered since he and Mike had gone to London. The new projects kept him late in the library some nights, an unfortunate necessity Sara didn't criticize so long as Michael allowed her to take care of Faith upon most wakings. She noticed he took extra care to ensure he didn't become as worn down as he had been the night of his worst PTSD episode.

One evening a few weeks into their new work schedule, Sara found him at his desk staring at his computer screen well after the kids had gone to bed. "Tough project?" she asked, coming up behind him.

"No," he told her with a sigh. "It's the Sable scholarship fund."

"You still can't find foster kids who qualify?" she asked.

But that wasn't the problem. "I filled the spot they set aside for that, but Sara, there are so many other worthy students who need funding to attend. Look at this." He showed her the list, half a screen-length long, of local kids awaiting scholarships.

"But you can only do so much, Michael," she reminded him gently, rubbing his neck as she read the computer screen over his shoulder.

"But that's the thing," he said slowly. "I think we can do more."

"We as in Sable, or we as in you and me?" she asked cautiously. Because Michael couldn't deny that sometimes, he threw money at problems he perceived were somehow of his own making, even if they absolutely weren't. "You know you can't fix the fact that there are more candidates than scholarships available," she added. "Not every worthy child in Chicago will receive the quality education they should. That's not your fault."

He nodded, but she wondered if he'd truly heard what she said. He continued to stare at the computer screen.

"And we need to focus on funding our own children's education through that school, right?" she pressed. A Sable education was not cheap, and surely Henry would start there in a few years and maybe even Faith, one day?

"I've already accounted for that," he told her, almost absently.

Sara didn't doubt it. Michael was meticulous with money.

"And college," he added.

"Okay, Michael," she agreed, losing motivation to press further. Planning for such a distant future felt a bit depressing to her, like they were hastening their children's childhoods, wishing the kids grown too fast. And besides, he didn't need to worry himself into sleeplessness over college funds tonight, while their children were still so young.

Michael didn't seem to pick up on her desire to drop the subject. "Mike's college fund is very healthy," he elaborated, "and Henry's and Faith's will grow nicely each year."

But he must have misspoken because this didn't track. "But we started Mike's account at the same time as Henry's," she reminded him. She remembered the paperwork from the bank after Henry's birth. Michael had insisted on starting to save right away.

"Yes, well," Michael said noncommittally. When Sara sat down next to him to really look at him, he added, "With Mike's, it was more of a transfer from an existing fund than an account creation."

This was the first she'd heard of this. "What fund?" she asked.

Michael turned and regarded her, and Sara had the uneasy feeling he was trying ascertain how she'd react.

"What fund?" she repeated.

"The fact is," he started slowly, "I've been saving money for Mike since _his_ birth, not since Henry's. In an offshore account I managed for a while."

"Offshore…"

"Not all the money was strictly…clean," he admitted softly, "but I earned it free and clear, whenever I could find a side job without…Jacob's…knowledge." All these years later, and he still got hung up on his name. So did Sara; suddenly, she was thinking more about Michael pulling this over on him than about the account itself.

She shook her head to clear it. "Michael. An offshore savings account?" She had no idea how to feel about this.

"This is why I never said," he told her, looking at her anxiously. "This look on your face."

What was it? Disapproval? Distaste? Admiration? She had no idea what he saw there. "It's not a…look," she promised him. "I'm just concerned. What did you have to do to earn this money?"

"Nothing I wasn't already doing for Poseidon," he insisted. "I just…freelanced."

"And you were going to give this money to Mike one day? How?"

"I wasn't sure. Somehow, though, even if I couldn't get out of prison, even if I died there, I would have made sure it found him."

Sara tried to imagine what this scenario would have looked like, what it would have cost her to witness Mike receiving a windfall out of the blue, while she thought Michael dead. Where would she think it came from? Would she have suspected Lincoln of shady borrowing or gambling? Maybe. But the motivation wouldn't have been there. Mike had been taken care of. Sara herself made sure of that, and the savings Michael had left her had been there to use, had there been any doubt. No, more likely, she would have known in her gut who the money had been from. She shuddered as though a shadow crossed her grave. The revelation would have simultaneously thrilled and terrified her, just as it _had_ done, when Lincoln first came to her with his suspicions of Michael's existence over four years ago.

She found she really, really wanted to change the subject. "So, if the kids are taken care of," she said carefully, "what are you thinking, regarding the Sable scholarships?"

"I'm looking at our finances," Michael told her, switching to a new tab on the screen, equally eager to move past discussion of Mike's college fund if Sara was willing. "And I'm wondering about investing."

"In?"

"Something safe, something conservative. If I can grow say, one-fourth of our savings in a stock portfolio, I was thinking we could start a foundation, and continue to let the money work for us, investing it over and over."

"A foundation?" She turned the idea over in her head. "Like a charitable foundation?" When he nodded, she added, "For what?"

"More scholarships to Sable, and other schools in the city, too, maybe after-school programs, more clinics. You're always saying Chicago needs more out-patient addiction services."

Yes, she was. "You're serious about this?"

His eyes caught hers, bright and earnest, the way they looked when he set his sights on something. "It would be a way to give back," he told her, "Concretely, to this city. After all I've—"

"We've."

"Done."

She studied him for a moment. The truth was, she wasn't always in agreement with Michael that they owed society so much, after all this time. She rather thought Michael was the one owed a debt. But she'd never convince him of that. Not in her entire lifetime. And the idea of additional clinics sounded very appealing.

"Alright, let's do it," she told him. "Let's start a foundation with some of our money if that would make you happy."

She laughed as he tugged her to him for a celebratory kiss.

* * *

With Sara back at work and his own efforts channeled into both the security firm and the newly conceived foundation, Michael knew he was back in danger of wearing himself too thin. It wouldn't happen, not on his watch. He napped when Faith napped. He delegated work to Sucre. He accepted Ellie's assistance. He kept his appointments with Dr. Hawthorne. And he kept medication at the ready for when he needed it.

His mantra, which used to be only 'take care of my family at any cost', had expanded to 'take care of my family and _enjoy_ my family'. That meant relaxing, taking things less seriously when he could, and not worrying so much if he missed perfection by a millimeter (or mile).

"Your mantra is _what_ , Papi?" Sucre asked, brow knitted, when Michael agreed they could be done early one day. "That doesn't sound anything like you."

"I'm just trying to enjoy the ride more," Michael explained, feeling frustrated with Sucre's confused expression. "It's possible for me, you know."

Sucre still looked baffled for a moment, then his face cleared. "It's the third baby," he decided, as though alighting upon a nugget of wisdom. "Once the kids outnumber you, you pretty much _have_ to give up."

"I'm not… _giving up_ , Sucre," Michael countered. Honestly.

Sucre remained unfettered. "Call it what you want, Papi," he said, "but either way, it looks good on you." When he grinned at him, Michael couldn't help grinning back.

"Good to hear."

* * *

On a night in mid-October, several weeks into this new 'relaxed' mantra of Michael's, Sara woke before dawn to Faith's cries. God, that girl was now four months old, and still refused to sleep even halfway through the night. She opened her eyes just enough to glance at the bedside clock: 3:35 am. She'd fed her only about an hour ago. "She does _not_ need to eat again," she mumbled and felt Michael stir then rise to take care of it. She closed her eyes again gratefully, then realized: it was after midnight, and therefore, Michael's birthday.

"Wait. I'll go," she protested shamefully quietly, hoping he wouldn't hear. He didn't: Michael had already disappeared down the hallway. _She'd make it up to him tonight,_ she thought sleepily. _Especially if she could get enough rest now…_

The next thing she knew, it was 4:15 am, and she'd woken again to noise coming from down the hallway. But not the sound of crying. It was…music? What the hell? She flung an arm beside her and came up empty: Michael hadn't returned to bed yet, which could only mean he was still trying to settle Faith. Or…singing? The tinny sound of music persisted, voices drifting toward her. She tried to ignore this development for a few seconds, then decided she couldn't. Throwing back the covers with a groan, she went to investigate.

The music streamed down the hallway, coming from…Henry's room? The culprit: the speaker he'd gotten for his birthday in August, which they could program via their phones. He'd been using it as an alarm clock of sorts, to keep him in bed until 7 am. Why was it going off now, and what on earth was it playing? Satellite radio? Yep: the strains of _Play that Song_ , by Train became distinguishable now.

She stepped into the room to witness a full-on dance party. There was really no other way to describe the scene. Henry jumped up and down on his bed, waving his arms to the music, Michael spun around with Faith in his arms, who laughed and laughed (a brand new skill), and even Mike had matriculated into his brother's room, leading Henry in singing along to the lyrics blasting from the radio speaker as he danced with him.

 _Play that song,_

 _the one that makes me go_ ** _all night long_** _, (they really belted this part)_

 _the one that makes me think of you,_

 _that's all you gotta do._

"What in the world?"

Michael grinned at her when he saw her in the doorway, grasped her hand, and tugged her into their impromptu party.

"It is four in the morning," she protested, trying to worm her way back out of his grasp.

He held firm. "Dance with us."

"Are you insane?" she laughed.

"She loves it," Michael said, as though this fact were explanation enough for this crazy middle-of-the-night behavior. Sure enough, as Mike sang out the next stanza, Faith smiled and bopped up and down in Michael's arms.

 _She said, play that song,_

 _the one that makes me stay_ ** _out til dawn_** _,_

 _the one that makes me go, ohh._

 _That's all you gotta do._

"This is Faith's favorite, Mom," Mike called out to her. "She likes to party all night."

"Yeah, I know," Sara pointed out. "I'm always on her invite list, unfortunately."

Michael laughed again and spun Sara around, sending her toward her sons. Henry jumped from the bed to grasp her hands and swing them up and down.

"Dance with us, Mama," he insisted.

"I am, I am," she laughed. As she spun past Michael again, she repeated, " _Four. A.M._ " She would have added an expletive had the boys not been present.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em," Michael pointed out with an almost carefree shrug. "Faith woke up Henry, and he turned on his music, and that woke up Mike, and…whatever."

"Whatever?" she mouthed incredulously. She'd ask him if he was back on medication, but she knew he wasn't. He was simply…happy. And their joyful faces were contagious, of course. Faith continued to chortle with deep belly laughs as Michael danced with her, and Mike and Henry looked simultaneously shell-shocked and elated to be allowed to behave like this before dawn. It was impossible to remain grumpy and tired.

 _Hey, Mr. Guitar,_

 _when you gonna strum it,_ Mike sang, pointing to his dad who finished,

 _My girl just heard this song and you should play it 'cause she loves it._

Sara gaped at him, laughing anew despite herself. He actually sounded pretty damn good, on key and everything. How many years together, and she hadn't known he could sing? She let herself be twirled around again, then, as the song ended, collapsed onto Henry's small bed, tugging Mike down with her. Henry bounced on top of them, and Michael sank down next to them with Faith. "Happy birthday," she told him, kissing his cheek, and watched Mike and Henry's eyes widen.

"Oh yeah! Happy Birthday!" Mike echoed.

"Happy Birfday!" Henry added, in everyone's direction until Sara pointed to his father. "Dada," he added triumphantly.

"Best birthday yet," he told them, looking meaningfully at Mike, who smiled back at him, looking at least ten going on twenty. _Stop growing up,_ Sara wanted to command him. _And stop moving forward,_ she wanted to tell time in general. Of course, if she got her way and time stood still, Faith would _never_ sleep through the night.

Michael lay back on the bed, his shoulder brushing Sara's, Faith coming to rest on his chest. She grinned, her small face tilted adorably sideways at her mother, and Sara felt her heart relent.

"And good morning, you," she told her daughter. She tickled Faith under her chin the way she liked and was rewarded with another chortle.

"I'm sorry," Michael told Sara, still smiling, adding again, "This just seemed to happen."

But she just squeezed his hand, rolling toward him to kiss him. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mike making a face at this display of affection and tugged him closer against her before he could retreat, while Henry wormed his way between her and Michael to do his part to break things up.

"You good?" Michael asked Sara, peering at her from around Henry, one hand protecting Faith from her brother's flailing limbs.

"I'm happy right now," she promised him, rewarding him with another smile of her own.

* * *

Eighteen Years Later

Faith Scofield shrugged back into her coat as her ride share pulled up to the curb at LaSalle Street and West Harrison, right off The Loop. She thanked the driver and pushed open the car door to a blast of wind, glancing up at the sleek glass tower of 601 LaSalle. She hurried toward the double doors at the entrance of the building; the weather had turned freezing, and she'd forgotten her gloves.

She nearly ran into her brother Mike, waiting for her near the door. He was on his phone, pacing in suit and tie, like he was still on the Senate floor, not waiting on his kid sister in the cold.

He ended his call when he glimpsed her. "Hey, you," he greeted her, a kiss to her cheek. "How's college life?"

Mike was tall and handsome and naturally tanned, even in the Chicago winter, though Faith knew he worked entirely too hard. She grinned, fisting her hands into her jacket pockets. "Good. How's the youngest junior congressman in the state of Illinois?"

He just rolled his eyes and smiled at her, glancing at his watch. "You're almost late."

"I had a physics exam."

"Yeah? How'd it go?"

She shrugged. "Easy. Anyway," she told him, "I'll never be late, because _someone_ will always be later."

Mike sighed. "Want to wait for him, or just go on up?"

She scrunched up her nose, rubbing it with her ungloved hand, trying to prevent her face from going numb. "And be the one to tell Dad he's MIA? I'll pass."

"Alright," Mike agreed. "Solidarity it is. But there's no point in freezing."

He held the door open for her and they stepped into the marbled lobby. The guard at the security desk waved to them. "Going up, kids?"

Faith smiled at him. Mike was 28 years old, but their longtime security guard had known him half his life, and known Faith for nearly all of hers. She supposed he'd always view them as children. "Hey, Bill. We're waiting on our brother."

Bill chuckled. "'Course you are."

Her phone pinged, and she dug it out of her book bag to glance at it. Mike looked at her hopefully.

"Not him," she said. Then, because she had nothing else to do while they waited, and Mike was easy to goad, she added, "Boyfriend."

Predictably, Mike took the bait. "How is the misunderstood poet, these days?" he asked, unable to hide the disapproval from his face.

"It not his fault no one understands his work," she told him. "He's a tortured soul."

"Your favorite."

She glared at him but didn't bother with a reply. Mike might as well be Dad. She'd certainly had two of them, growing up. "For your information, and not that it's any of your business," she told him, "we broke up last week, before mid-terms."

Mike looked relieved, then concerned again in the same second. "Then who's this guy?" he asked, pointing at her phone.

She grinned at him. "Automated dental appointment reminder message," she informed him, eyes dancing. "I don't have a boyfriend right now." She stashed her phone back into her bag with a shrug. "There's really no one interesting out there."

Mike tried to look annoyed with her, but she could tell he was still relieved. This was nothing new. Neither of her brothers had approved of a single boyfriend, ever. Not that there had been many…in Faith's experience, the vast majority of boys turned tail when they realized Faith came packaged with two overprotective older brothers and a father who scared them shitless.

"Good," Mike said now. "We'll open with your relationship status, then. Give Dad some good news before breaking it to him that our brother can't be bothered to read a calendar."

As if on cue, the glass front door burst open, bringing with it a blast of cold air and the bundle of coiled energy that was Henry.

"Finally!" Faith exclaimed.

"I don't know what household you two grew up in," Henry called to them in greeting, "but in mine, you were expected to show up _on time_ to a family meeting." He grinned devilishly at them. "Let's go!" He waved them forward, already headed to the elevator bank, slipping a tie he'd fished from his pocket around his neck. "Bill, my man!" he added, waving toward the desk.

"Henry Scofield!" Bill called back, beaming at him. "Looking good, son!"

"How _do_ you manage to look like you just rolled out of bed _and_ like you're posing for a magazine spread at the same damn time?" Mike mumbled, falling in line behind him and holding the elevator door for Faith.

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Henry grinned, throwing an arm first around Mike, then Faith. She saw Bill smile again from the security desk before she hit the elevator button and the doors closed.

"No, seriously," Henry added, releasing them. "I really would. Did Dad tell you? I'm interning at the CIA. Started last week."

"Yes, Hen, we all heard," Faith told him. Henry was less than three years older than her, but already halfway through dual masters programs in criminology and computer engineering. And Mike had how many PhDs? Two? Plus the bar exam passed, 'just in case'. It had been _super_ fun trailing her brothers at Sable throughout her entire childhood, despite the fact that she'd more than held her own.

"When does Mom get back?" she asked now. "Because with her in India, I have no buffer. Seriously, I am Dad's sole project."

"Aw," Henry cooed at her. "Is it tough, being the beloved Daddy's girl? Has it been super terrible, up in your pretty princess tower?" He pinched her cheek playfully, and she grabbed his hand, pinning it in her fist.

"I will take you down," she promised, giving his wrist a threatening twist, just for good measure. The twelve years of Jujutsu Dad insisted on, finally put to good use. And anyway, it wasn't true. If anything, their father was soft on Mike, not her.

"Alright," Mike intoned when she'd pointed this out. "Enough."

"Don't be such a grown-up," Faith told him. "No one likes it."

Henry guffawed, pinching Mike's cheek, too. "Middle child, under the radar," he declared, with a dramatic sweep of one hand. "I'm telling you guys, it's the place to be."

"Under the radar," Mike scoffed. "Weren't you voted Most Likely to be Named Sexiest Man Alive your senior year?"

"What can I say?" Henry asked innocently. "I can't help it if the girls dig me."

"And the guys," Faith added with a smirk, not quite under her breath.

"That was _one_ mix-up," Henry protested. "One!"

They were all laughing as the elevator door opened with a _ding_ , and they stepped into the foyer of The Scofield Foundation. Down the hall, Scofield Security Engineering Solutions held its own offices, dark at this hour, managed almost entirely now by Dad's long-time partner, Fernando Sucre, with assistance from Mike in his 'free time'. Where he found _that_ , Faith didn't know.

At the front desk, their receptionist greeted the siblings with a smile. "He's in his office," she told them. "And says to tell you you're late."

"Henry's fault," Mike and Faith said in unison, and the receptionist, who, Faith was always happy to point out, was at least twice their age, flushed in her usual manner at any reference to their brother. "Oh well, Henry," she gushed, "I'm sure you have a good reason."

"I appreciate that Denise," he replied, his voice cloaked in false innocence, before Faith could yank him down the hall.

In his office, their dad rose from his desk immediately when they entered, smiling at them all. "Hi, sweetheart," he said first to Faith, hugging her before kissing her cheek. He embraced Henry and Mike, adding to the latter, "I caught a peek at that reform bill you had a hand in…looks great, son."

Mike's eyes lit up. Faith was well-accustomed to feeling behind the curve on their family's often complicated dynamics, but one thing was certain: her oldest brother would never tire of their father's approval. Without a doubt, he'd take over the security business entirely one day, when he tired of politics.

Her dad led the way into his attached sitting room and settled onto one of the couches. Henry plopped down next to him after helping himself to a sparkling water from the mini fridge, meant for clients and donors, and Mike eased down across from them, smoothing his shirt carefully over his torso as he sat. Faith perched on the arm of her dad's couch, half sitting, half standing.

"Would it kill you to look at your watch, Henry?" Dad inquired with a raise of one eyebrow.

Mike, who Faith supposed was now feeling generous, deftly changed the subject. "Faith dumped that poetry major, Dad. We don't have to pretend to like spoken word anymore."

Dad glanced up at her swiftly. "Did you really, sweetheart?"

She nodded. "It's no big deal. We were just having fun."

He frowned at this assessment of her relationship, but said, "Well, that's _great_ ," as though Mike had told him she'd won an award for valor or something.

"That guy was never going to be good enough for you, Faith," Henry weighed in. Mike and Dad both murmured their agreement.

This came as no surprise. Maybe someday she'd meet a guy worthy of her in the eyes of her father and brothers, but she wasn't holding her breath. "See, this is why I need Mom," she said to no one in particular. Although, Faith had her suspicions that her mother hadn't liked her latest boyfriend, either. She'd only pretended to, so Faith would confide in her. Her dad and brothers were far more transparent in their opinions on her social life.

"When does Mom get home?" Mike asked.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you all about," Dad said.

"What, we haven't lost her to the urban jungle of Kolkata, have we?" Henry asked.

Dad smiled. "Not yet." He paused. "I don't think." Faith's mom helped oversee a trio of medical clinics their family's foundation funded in India, a job that required several trips a year. It used to take even more of her time: in high school, during one of his many rebellious stages, Henry had taken to sarcastically calling Mom 'Mother Teresa' as a subtle dig at her frequent absences while the clinics had been getting underway. Faith, in middle school at the time, had minded less. She had Dad, who, with his tendency to hover, was attentive enough to count for several parents.

At one time or another, Mom had taken each of her kids along with her to India. Faith had gone at age 16, and she could still remember the tang of jasmine and sewage in her nose, the muck and mire of the city, cut with the constant sound of horns honking and the sight of rickshaw drivers weaving through traffic. Chaos personified. She'd loved it. Mike had hated it, finding the inundation of sensations and sounds too much to bear, and so, Faith suspected, had her father, which was why Mom took these trips solo most of the time. Who knew what Henry had made of it. He'd probably been mistaken for a Bollywood star or something.

"But she gets back on Tuesday," Dad was saying, "and I want to surprise her with something."

* * *

Two things Faith had always understood, growing up: you didn't cross her mom when she'd set her sights on something, and you _really_ didn't cross her dad, when her mom was crossed. Sara Scofield could be underestimated, but it was a mistake people only made once: she had a quiet, unrelenting tenacity about her that got her what she wanted. Take, for example, the first time she'd wanted Faith home for a family dinner after she'd matriculated to college…on a Friday night, no less, when Faith had just learned about a great party her roommate was _almost_ certain they could get into. But Mom had refused to take no for an answer, and when Faith had tried a new tact, texting her father to beg off, she received only four succinct words in reply. Words that might as well be Dad's life motto: _Make your mother happy._

Tonight, however, Faith was glad to be making the slow crawl on the El from her dorm room at the University of Chicago to Lincoln Park. Her mom had only been home a few days, and Faith had missed her while she'd been gone. Plus, the surprise Dad had in store for her would be fun to witness. And she loved it here, in the city. Though Mike now split his time between Chicago and Springfield, and Henry would be leaving soon for his internship in Virginia, she expected to always live here, in this city that represented home to her. It didn't hurt, she supposed, that her last name was etched into more than a few donor plaques across the city, the Scofield Foundation listed as the lead sponsor of many community organizations and charitable programs. Faith knew this recognition was very important to her parents, but not for the reasons most people probably assumed. It wasn't about seeing their name screen-printed on the backs of fun run t-shirts or trophies. It was about some sort of karmic balance Faith had watched her mom and dad work to achieve her whole life.

 _Make it right. Get it all back. Familial obligation._ They probably didn't realize how closely she paid attention.

At her childhood home at the corner of Oz Park, Faith pushed open the front door with a, "Hey, Mommm?" to find herself besieged almost instantly.

"Ohhh! Baby girl! I am _so_ glad to see you."

Her mom hugged her tightly, then pulled back to study her, making her spin around for her. "Are you losing weight at school?" she frowned. She tapped her cheek in a caress. "Michael?" she called. "Do you think Faith's lost weight?"

"Jeez, Mom, no. Definitely not." She was her usual lanky self. Faith couldn't seem to gain weight if she tried, much to her roommate's annoyance. She ducked out of her mom's embrace before everyone could weigh in (no pun intended) on the size of her ass.

"Faith broke up with her poet, Mom," Henry said helpfully, wandering into the living room from the kitchen. He threw Faith one of his signature impish grins.

"Oh, baby, I'm sorry to hear that," Mom said, but she couldn't quite _look_ sorry, saying it.

"No, you're not," Faith chastised mildly, though when Mom tugged her back against her, she did allow herself to be comforted. Mom was good at soothing.

"God, no, you're right, I'm not," she admitted, laughing in relief, drawing back again to smile at Faith. "That guy…what was it about him?" She cast a look over her shoulder to Henry. "He was just the _worst_ , right?"

Henry agreed enthusiastically.

"Alright," Faith protested. "Can we move on? Maybe talk about someone else's shortcomings for a change? Oh wait, that's right," she added sarcastically. "I'm in the perfect family."

Henry wagged his perfect eyebrows at her, and she laughed despite herself. "No one here is perfect," Mom insisted, and Henry shook his head silently behind her back, suggesting again that there was _one_ perfect person in Faith's midst. She rolled her eyes at him.

Everything came easily to Henry. To Mike, too, but watching Mike succeed was like watching someone kick their way steadily upstream…impressive, but also far more difficult than necessary. But Henry? Henry glided over the surface of things, free and clear. She wondered if to be Henry felt like being on the deck of the _Taj,_ wind at your back, just cruising. All the time.

"You can do things the hard way, but why?" she'd heard him say more than once, breezing his way through school, sports, life.

"Kids," Mom said now, glancing at her calendar, "Don't forget, it's Ellie's birthday next week. You'll give her a call?"

"Already taking her to lunch at Morty's," Henry confirmed, one-upping the birthday card that still sat on Faith's desk in her dorm room without even trying.

"Oh, she'll love that, Hen. Thank you." Mom beamed at him.

Henry glanced at Faith and said sincerely, "Come with, if you want."

She would, she decided, if she didn't have class. Ellie had been with them all the way through her childhood; she missed her, now that she was in college. "I'll see if Mike's available, too," she added. "Where _is_ Mike?" she asked.

"He and your dad are in the library, working on something," her mom told her. _Ah,_ Faith thought. _The surprise._ In her excitement to see Mom, she's almost forgotten about it.

She grinned. "Be right back."

In the library, Mike and Dad bent over his laptop screen. "Is that the final itinerary?" she asked, coming up behind them.

Dad startled, then relaxed when he turned around to glance at her. "Faith! Thank God. I thought you were your mother."

She supposed they looked enough alike, and their voices _were_ similar. "Sorry," she told them. "She knows not to come in here. She doesn't know _why_ , but so far, she's doing as she's told."

"Well, that's a miracle," Mike intoned dryly.

Dad ignored this, sending the document they'd been working on to the printer with a flourish. A moment later, it was folded and sealed in an envelope.

* * *

They gave it to Mom after dinner, while they all still sat around the table.

"But I don't understand," she said, accepting the envelope in confusion. "What's the occasion?"

"Belated," Dad told her simply, after a moment of consideration.

"Belated…what? Birthday? Anniversary?"

"Sort of," he said, shedding zero light. "You'll see."

She opened the card cautiously, as though worried something might jump out at her. Faith knew from years of gift giving that her mom was extremely difficult to buy for. Only her dad could really do it right, but since _he_ had handed her the envelope, Faith didn't know what Mom had to be afraid of. She unfolded the paper Dad had just printed and read it.

"Michael…what is this?" she asked softly.

Dad looked nervous. Even though he was great at gifts, he always second-guessed them. Years ago, he'd gotten Faith a My First Physics Kit for Christmas, even though she'd asked for Flower Power Kids. He'd known she'd like the science experiments better, even if she hadn't known it herself. But Christmas Eve, he'd panicked, they told Faith later, scouring every store on the Northside for the flower dolls, too, loathe to disappoint her on Christmas morning. He shouldn't have questioned himself, of course: she'd fallen in love with physics that year.

Now, he leaned forward across the table, facing Mom. He took her hand. "It's a honeymoon, Sara."

She went silent. Faith bit her lip. So did Mom. "A honeymoon?" she laughed in wonder, and maybe a little bit in bafflement. "Michael."

"I was telling the kids," he said, "how we never got one. Not after our wedding," they shared a look Faith couldn't quite identify (bittersweet?), "and not seven years later when we were reunited." He glanced at Faith and her brothers. "It wasn't the right time, then: I was trying to get to know Mike, and Henry was already on the way, and…it never happened."

"We've had so many trips, though," Mom was quick to point out. "To the Baja house, right?" She included the kids in this. "And on the _Taj._ And of course to India."

"That's not the same as a honeymoon, Mom," Henry pointed out, making her laugh again.

"No, I guess it's not." She glanced back down at the paper, which Faith knew included not only a detailed and very ambitious itinerary but multiple customizable options, laid out in a complicated flow chart only her dad and Mike could conceive. "This is amazing." She glanced around the table. "Did you all know about this?" They nodded, and she studied the paper harder. "But when…?"

"Well," Dad said, looking to Mike, who rose to retrieve something from the sideboard, "I know you just got back, but…"

Mike laid her passport in front of her, a boarding pass stuck between the covers. "What?" she said slowly. "No…"

Dad nodded, and Faith looked at Mom, watching her wrap her mind around this…a boarding pass, of course, indicated an imminent departure. When she glanced at it, she'd see they were leaving tonight. At first, Faith couldn't tell what Mom thought of this, but then she started to nod, then nod harder, beaming at Dad in that way she had that telegraphed to the whole world exactly how she felt about him. She rose from the table, and then so did he, ready to receive her when she flung herself into his arms. "Thank you," she cried, arms around his neck.

"I know you just got home, and it's spur of the moment for you…" he began.

"I cannot wait."

"I promise it will be relaxing."

"Not too relaxing, I hope."

"Oh c'mon," Henry objected with a groan. "Mom! We do not need to overhear that."

Mom and Dad ignored him, smiling at each other like their three grown children were no longer in the room, and sensing danger, Henry added, "And we've talked about PDA."

But Faith just smiled. She used to pretend to hate how sappy and in love her parents always were. But the truth was, she'd never minded. It always made her feel good inside, knowing this kind of love actually existed, like she could observe a rare species right from the comfort of her kitchen. "Are they for _real_?" a friend had whispered to her once when she'd been about 13 or 14, and they'd borne witness to one of Mom's homecomings from India. "Sorry," she'd just shrugged. "You get used to it after a while."

The only _problem_ with getting used to it: crazy unrealistic expectations in her own love life. If Mom and Dad wondered why Faith burned through boyfriends, they only had themselves to blame. Because how could she or her brothers ever hope to find a relationship like the one they'd had modeled for them? How could they possibly? And yet, having grown up with such an example, nothing less would do.

"Are we really leaving tonight?" Mom asked breathlessly.

"Mike is able to housesit," Dad said, "so we don't have to do a thing…no readying the house, no locking up, none of that." He said 'we', but Faith knew Dad did all that, religiously, whenever they went somewhere. "We don't even have to do the dishes, right Henry?"

Henry mumbled agreement. "And Faith packed your luggage already."

Mom turned to beam at her. "Really baby? Thank you!" She lowered her voice. "Did you pack that, um, little nightgown thing, with the, um—"

"Mom!" Henry protested again, while Mike added, "Oh, grow up, Henry!"

Mom laughed. "You're way too easy to tease, Hen," she told him, coming around the table to encircle her arms around him from behind. She ran a hand over his head, combing her fingers through the wavy curls he'd been letting grow out, and Faith watched him relent, smiling upward at her. Mom could charm as effortlessly as Henry, when she wanted to.

* * *

After the whirlwind of activity followed by rushed goodbyes that was her parents' departure, Faith retreated to her favorite part of the house, climbing the stairs past the bedroom she'd occupied since she'd been a little girl to their rooftop patio. On her way up, she perused the framed family photos lining the wall along the staircase: maybe it was her dad's romantic surprise or her parents' hasty goodbye messing with her head, but she found herself in a nostalgic mood. She studied each photo on the climb up: herself as a very little girl, standing on chubby legs for the first time, Mike at maybe 13 or 14, at the helm of the _Taj_ , then again a few years later in cap and gown, delivering his high school valedictorian speech. Henry around age 10, leaping something on his bike like a daredevil, then as a teen, on stage as Hamlet the year he'd discovered his love of acting with the Chicago Youth Stage. The reviews had read like the nonsensical titterings of teenage girls… _Hamlet sizzles this summer, Hamlet swoon-worthy_ …

Further up the stairs, Faith studied the photo of herself and her mom just last year, dressed up for the Chicago school board gala, one of the first Scofield Foundation events she'd been permitted to attend. Of course, the most celebrated of the framed photos, centered at the top of the stairs, featured the one portrait for which her mom had insisted on corny matching outfits, the kids sitting on the beach in front of their Baja house. Faith had been about four years old, wearing a little white sundress, her hair unruly and windswept around her face, Mike and Henry in tan shorts and white shirts on either side of her. She pouted moodily into the camera, wanting to be swimming, not stuck on the sand, posing with her brothers. Beside her, Henry made a silly face, head cocked to one side goofily, still somehow looking adorable. Only Mike smiled obediently for the camera. Dad had made them re-do the portrait to Faith and Henry's whining protest (only Mike had been agreeable, and he'd been the blameless one). First, though, he'd tugged a brush through Faith's wind and saltwater-tangled curls as gently as possible, French braiding her hair neatly. Dad was uncannily good at hair. Mom said it had to do with his 'artist hands'. He could draw well, too, and fold anything out of paper. They'd all dutifully smiled for the second photo session, but _this_ was the photo that made the wall. Mom said it captured them perfectly.

Henry joined her up on the patio after a few minutes, having somehow managed to pass off dishes duty to Mike. They started a fire in the pit, then she leaned against his shoulder on the outdoor wicker couch, watching the flames spit and snap. They'd always been close, she and Henry, growing up together, the gap in age between them and Mike sometimes formidable. The 'After Kids', Mike called them, out of hearing of Mom and Dad. He considered himself the 'Before Kid', a label Faith thought he rather enjoyed, in a martyrdom sort of way. "I totally cleared the way for you two," Mike liked to say. "All the tough stuff was before you came along."

Mike liked to do that: hint that he knew more, had the inside scoop, just because he'd known it first. But Faith knew the story too: how Dad had broken out of Fox River, how Mom had helped, how they'd run together across the country, down to Panama, how they'd risked everything to take down a conspiracy, had thought each other dead…it was all like out of a movie, Faith thought, this fantastical first life of her parents. And that was the thing, she supposed: to her and Henry, this story was just a story. To Mike, she had to admit, it felt real. He'd been just close enough to it, just shy of the edges of it all, that he'd felt the sting.

She'd asked him about it, just once. She'd been in high school then, Mike home from grad school for the weekend. "What was it like, when Dad came back to you and Mom, out of nowhere?" It was so hard for Faith to imagine him _not_ being there always, from her earliest memories onward.

Mike had pursed his lips, thinking in that lightning quick way of his that still somehow seemed deliberate and careful. "It was intense," he decided eventually. "Everything was suddenly different. The idea of Dad had always been there, larger than life, but then he was actually _there_. It was a huge deal, Faith." He'd looked at her. "You know how Mom and Dad are together."

She did. _Intense_ was the right word.

"Now double that."

She'd exhaled slowly. No wonder Mike was…well, _Mike._

He joined them now, settling onto the couch with them, grabbing the old woolen blanket they kept up here. He tossed it over them all, then poked absently at the fire. He looked relaxed, a rare condition for Mike. Faith noticed he'd even ditched his tie. "You should stay the night," he told Faith. "I'll give you a ride back to campus in the morning." He looked at Henry. "Both of you should."

The idea of sleeping over, tucked into her childhood bed, held appeal. She and Henry agreed, and Mike nodded his approval.

Henry looked between them. "So, what do you say? Raging party tonight?"

Mike smiled indulgently at his brother and shook his head. "Work at 8 am."

Faith added, "Paper due tomorrow."

Henry sighed melodramatically, then admitted, "I'll probably fall asleep before 11."

"Remember when you thought you could throw a kegger here while Dad and Mom took Faith to her Speech and Debate competition in Cleveland?" Mike chuckled.

"I thought I'd been so clever, planning that party," Henry said. "I think Dad knew about it somehow before he even left. Guess he figured it would be more of a challenge, shutting it down from 350 miles away. I didn't even see it _coming_." He grinned, while simultaneously kind of shuddering. Dad at maximum anger mode…not for the faint of heart.

"But," Henry held up one finger. "What they never found out…I snuck out of my room later, rolled his Lexus out of the garage super quietly, and went to Lucy Martin's house."

"Nooo!" Faith laughed. "You went to pick up a girl in _Dad's_ car?"

He nodded wickedly. "I mean, it turned out she wasn't home, volleyball tournament or something, but still…it was an accomplishment." He threw his head back in thought, remembering. "Then I had to sneak back _in_ , too, which, it turns out, is even harder."

They all laughed. Escaping after lock-down, er, curfew at _their_ house? An impressive feat. But Henry always had been a master escape artist. Mike reminded him how he used to climb out of his crib at night to wreak havoc on his room, barely old enough to walk.

"Is it too late to apologize for that?" Henry deadpanned.

"Yes," Mike laughed.

"Remember when Dad got called into the headmaster's office when I was a senior?" Henry prompted. "You were a freshman," he reminded Faith.

"Yeah, I'm noticing all these stories involve _you,_ Hen," Mike noted.

"Yeah," Henry agreed easily, "if Dad's pissed off, it's probably to do with me. But that time, I got a pass."

"Why?" Mike asked. He'd been away in college.

"Okay," Henry said, leaning forward to tell his tale. "So you have to picture me in Headmaster Johnson's office, huge shiner under my eye, lip all bloody."

"Jeez, Henry," Mike said. Faith just chuckled, and leaned back against the couch cushions, enjoying the feeling of the heat from the fire on her face. She knew this story, of course.

"No, wait for it," Henry told Mike. "Dad comes in, gets a good look at me, and starts in on me. Tells me everything you're thinking right now," he said to Mike. "'You're too impulsive, Henry, you need to think through your actions, Henry…' But I cut him off, tell him I don't regret this shiner, not one bit. Because…Faith knows why."

"Because Steven Meyer, that star lacrosse player from Lincoln Park High, had been saying some kind of shit, right?" she supplied.

"About Faith, yeah. He'd been rating all the Sable girls on a scale of…well, you know."

"Ugh," Mike said.

"And Faith, well, you can guess where she landed on the list, of course. Right at the top." Henry grimaced, remembering. "God, I hated that guy. Didn't even know her, right?"

Faith concurred.

"As if you'd give him the time of day," Mike added to Faith, though he hadn't even know Steven.

"So naturally," Henry continues, "I challenge him. You know…gotta defend Faith's honor."

"I didn't ask him to do any of this, by the way," Faith interjected.

"I get one good punch in, and then Steven proceeds to _pummel_ me," Henry concludes.

"Oh Henry," Mike groaned. "You are always too rash."

"So in the headmaster's office, I tell Dad all this, an edited version, anyway, tell him this LP High jock had been mouthing off inappropriately about Faith, who, by the way, was only 15…Steven was in my class…and Dad goes really quiet…you know how he can get. And I'm just waiting for the hammer to come down, right? And then he says, 'Son? Are you sure you hit him hard enough?'"

They all laughed.

"But wait! Then he looks more closely at my face…totally mangled, right? And adds, 'Though maybe you should let your sister fight her own battles.'"

Mike laughed so hard, he spilled the tea he'd brought upstairs onto their blanket. "You're too pretty to be a punching bag, Henry."

"Oh, shut up," he laughed.

"Is that when Uncle Lincoln started giving you boxing lessons? At that seedy gym downtown?"

"Yeah, but he gave up on me pretty quickly," Henry admitted. "Started training Faith instead. Said she had more potential. Something about a killer instinct." Faith curled her hand into a fist, flexing her arm. Henry laughed again good-naturedly. "What can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"You're _something_ , all right," Mike agreed.

They all laughed quietly again, then fell silent for a few minutes, watching the fire. Faith had just started feeling contemplative, and a little bit sleepy, when Henry piped up with another gem. "Remember when Mike broke his brand new surfboard in Baja?"

"Showing off for LJ," Faith supplied.

"Showing him how its done, more like," Mike corrected with a smile.

Henry said, "Do you guys ever think about how good we've had it? Like, insanely good. Fairytale level childhood."

They all agreed, even Mike, who was usually a devil's advocate kind of guy. They took turns offering up examples: their beach house vacations in Mexico, every February since before Faith was born; their weekend sails on their boat on Lake Michigan; their perfect school and beautiful house; their family's charitable foundation, that, Faith thought, she'd most likely run one day…

"Well, now, I dunno," Mike mused, predictably. "We _did_ have that whole summer when Faith was one, when we had to dry dock the sailboat."

"Why?" she asked.

"You," Mike supplied. "Dad was so excited to take you out on the lake, and you got terribly seasick. Puked all over Mom."

This tracked: while she loved to sail now, Faith had to take medication any time she went near water.

"You were too little then to take anything strong enough to make it tolerable. Mom tried everything: ginger root, essential oils, magnetic bands…" Mike shook his head, remembering.

"You should have gone without me, left me at home with Ellie," she said.

"Leave you home during a family sail? Dad wouldn't hear of it."

"I mean, _I_ was fine with it," Henry supplied. Faith grinned and nudged him with her shoulder.

"But in all seriousness," Mike hedged, because if anyone was going to steer this trip down memory lane into a serious direction, it was Mike, "there _were_ a few moments, growing up, I could have lived without."

Faith wasn't certain which moments Mike meant, though she knew he, more so than her and Henry, had several to choose from. She knew which one came to _her_ mind first. She'd only been about five or six years old and hadn't understood the cloud of stress that had suddenly descended on their house, the whispered conversations between her parents behind closed doors. She'd felt left out when they'd pulled Mike aside—just Mike—talking to him in hushed tones, too, asking him whether he wanted to visit someone somewhere before it was too late. Mike had cried, which had scared Faith…Mike had been a teenager, and teenagers didn't cry.

In the end, no one had gone anywhere, but everything stayed tense for a while, and then, just like that, the cloud had lifted. She'd asked Uncle Lincoln what it had been about, because Dad's face had been set in stone, and one look at Mom's face warned Faith not to ask her, either. But when she'd asked her uncle what an execution was, who this Ness person was, and why Mike might feel upset, even he wouldn't say, and Uncle Linc could usually be tricked or coaxed into giving away everything, from birthday surprises to family secrets. He'd just said gruffly, "It's over now. And he wasn't anyone you ever need to care about, kiddo."

"Pope's funeral was sad," she said now, offering up a different, more recent, example. The execution memory still felt too loaded to voice aloud, even though she understood it all, in the context of their family's history, now.

Mike and Henry nodded. "He was always so nice to us," Mike supplied. Really, Henry Pope had been the closest thing Faith had had to a grandparent, far as she could tell. He'd consulted on projects for Dad, kind of unofficially, for a number of years while she'd been growing up. Mom had always said, "They really just want to spend time together, but feel like they need an excuse." When Faith had pointed out that this was silly, Mom had just said, "It's complicated."

Lots of things were complicated, when Faith really dug into it, but she supposed this was true in any family. Still, she knew hers was special, in a way she'd be hard-pressed to define. This uniqueness transcended the plaques on buildings and charitable donation badges bearing their name. There was an expectation, Faith felt, that she and her brothers would carry on something intangible begun by her parents, that they would work to continue a legacy set in motion, somehow, before she'd been born.

For tonight, however, there was the familiar camaraderie they enjoyed, and a cheery fire, and the sense of well-being and safety Faith knew she was fortunate to have always known. She nudged her brothers on either side of her. "Here, look this way." She held her phone in front of them.

Mike tried to protest, but she said, "Oh, c'mon. We'll send them a selfie. Assure them we haven't burned the house down."

"There is literally a fire in the foreground, Faith," Henry pointed out.

"Well, then that'll give them something to think about, other than making googly eyes at each other," she said.

No one could argue with this. When she snapped the image, she, Henry and Mike were all smiling.


End file.
